GIFT  OF 
A,   P.   Morrison 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/englishsongsOOpalgrich 


)))■ 

>  >  I  • 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


OF  THE 


BEST  SONGS  AND  L  YRICAL  POEMS  IN 
THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 


SELECTED   AND   ARRANGED   WITH   NOTES 

BY 

FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE 

LATE   .TBLLOW  OF  BXETHR  COLLEGE,    OXFORD 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


GIFT  OF 


3\& 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Dedication      ••• •       •       .  5 

Preface  ......       %       ••       ...  7 

Book  I <       . 11 

Book  II *                      •       •       .  50 

Book  III ,,,...,  116 

Book  IV 175 

Notes ••*•«••  330 

Index  of  Writers •       •       .       .       •  345 

Index  of  First  Lines    ..••^♦•••348 


MI03279 


E'y  rfa  \ei(  Siva  >:a6l(r<t3. 
Mhoeirev  erepov  e<t>'  creep 
cUpo/jLcws  aypev/j.'  avbiwv 
<&8ouergt  il/v\4  —  - 


TO 

Slftrtj  Eenngson, 

POET  LAUREATE. 

This  book  in  its  progress  has  recalled  often  to  my  memory  a  man 
with  whose  friendship  we  were  once  honoured,  to  whom  no  region 
of  English  literature  was  unfamiliar,  and  who,  whilst  rich  in  all  the 
noble  gifts  of  Nature,  was  most  eminently  distinguished  by  the 
noblest  and  the  rarest,  — just  judgment  and  high-hearted  patriotism. 
It  would  have  been,  hence,  a  peculiar  pleasure  and  pride  to  dedicate 
what  I  have  endeavoured  to  make  a  true  national  Anthology  of  three 
centuries  to  Henry  Hallam.  But  he  is  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
human  tokens  of  love  and  reverence ;  and  I  desire,  therefore,  to 
place  before  it  a  name  united  with  his  by  associations  which,  whilst 
Poetry  retains  her  hold  on  the  minds  of  Englishmen,  are  not  likely 
to  be  forgotten. 

Your  encouragement,  given  while  traversing  the  wild  scenery  of 
Treryn  Dinas,  led  me  to  begin  the  work  ;  and  it  has  been  completed 
under  your  advice  and  assistance.  For  the  favour  now  asked  I  have 
thus  a  second  reason :  and  to  this  I  may  add,  the  homage  which  is 
your  right  as  Poet,  and  the  gratitude  due  to  a  Friend,  whose  regard 
I  rate  at  no  common  value. 

Permit  me  then  to  inscribe  to  yourself  a  book  which,  I  hope,  may 
be  found  by  many  a  lifelong  fountain  of  innocent  and  exalted  pleas- 
ure ;  a  source  of  animation  to  friends  when  they  meet ;  and  able  to 
sweeten  solitude  itself  with  best  society,  — with  the  companionship 
of  the  wise  and  the  good,  with  the  beauty  which  the  eye  cannot  see. 


6  DEDICATION. 

and  the  music  only  heard  in  silence.  If  this  Collection  proves  a 
storehouse  of  delight  to  Labour  and  to  Poverty,  —  if  it  teaches  those 
indifferent  to  the  Poets  to  love  them,  and  those  who  love  them  to 
love  them  more,  the  aim  and  the  desire  entertained  in  framing  it  will 
be  fully  accomplished. 

F.  T.  P. 
May,  i86*. 


PREFACE. 


This  little  Collection  differs,  it  is  believed,  from  others  in  the 
attempt  made  to  include  in  it  all  the  best  original  Lyrical  pieces  and 
Songs  in  our  language,  by  writers  not  living,  —  and  none  beside 
the  best.  Many  familiar  verses  will  hence  be  met  with ;  many  also 
which  should  be  familiar:  —  the  Editor  will  regard  as  his  fittest 
readers  those  who  love  Poetry  so  well,  that  he  can  offer  them  noth- 
ing not  already  known  and  valued. 

The  Editor  is  acquainted  with  no  strict  and  exhaustive  definition 
of  Lyrical  Poetry;  but  he  has  found  the  task  of  practical  decision 
increase  in  clearness  and  in  facility  as  he  advanced  with  the  work, 
whilst  keeping  in  view  a  few  simple  principles.  Lyrical  has  been 
here  held  essentially  to  imply  that  each  Poem  shall  turn  on  some 
single  thought,   feeling,   or  situation.     In  accordance  with  this, 


narrative"!  descriptive,  and  didactic  poems,  —  unless  accompanied  by 
rarjidity~o£-jnx^ejiiejnt,  brevity,  and  the  colouring  of  human  passion, 
—  have  been  excluded.  Humourous  poetry,  except  in  the  very 
unfrequent  instances  where  a  truly  poetical  tone  pervades  the  whole, 
with  what  is  strictly  personal,  occasional,  and  religious,  has  been 
considered  foreign  to  the  idea  of  the  book.  Blank  verse  and  the 
ten-syllable  couplet,  with  all  pieces  markedly  dramatic,  have  been 
rejected  as  alien  from  what  is  commonly  understood  by  Song,  and 
rarely  conforming  to  Lyrical  conditions  in  treatment.  But  it  is  not 
anticipated,  nor  is  it  possible,  that  all  readers  shall  think  the  line 
accurately  drawn.  Some  poems,  as  Gray's  Elegy,  the  Allegro  and 
Penseroso,  Wordsworth's  Ruth  or  Campbell's  Lord  Ullin,  might  be 
claimed  with  perhaps  equal  justice  for  a  narrative  or  descriptive 
selection :  whilst  with  reference  especially  to  Ballads  and  Sonnets, 
the  Editor  can  only  state  that  he  has  taken  his  utmost  pains  to 
decide  without  caprice  or  partialitv- 


8  PREFACE. 

This  also  is  all  he  can  plead  in  regard  to  a  point  even  more  liable 
to  question ;  —  what  degree  of  merit  should  give  rank  among  the 
Best.  That  a  Poem  shall  be  worthy  of  the  writer's  genius,  —  that 
it  shall  reach  a  perfection  commensurate  with  its  aim,  —  that  we 
should  require  finish  in  proportion  to  brevity,  —  that  passion. 
colour,  and  originality  cannot  atone  for  serious  imperfections,  in 
clearness,  unity,  or  truth,  —  that  a  few  good  lines  do  not  make  a  good 
poem,  that  popular  estimate  is  serviceable  as  a  guidepost  more  than 
as  a  compass,  —  above  all,  that  Excellence  should  be  looked  for 
rather  in  the  Whole  than  in  the  Parts,  —  such  and  other  such 
canons  have  been  always  steadily  regarded.  He  may  however  add 
that  the  pieces  chosen,  and  a  far  larger  number  rejected,  have  been 
carefully  and  repeatedly  considered ;  and  that  he  has  been  aided 
throughout  by  two  friends  of  independent  and  exercised  judgment, 
besides  the  distinguished  person  addressed  in  the  Dedication.  It 
is  hoped  that  by  this  procedure  the  volume  has  been  freed  from 
that  one-sidedness  which  must  beset  individual  decisions :  —  but 
for  the  final  choice  the  Editor  is  alone  responsible. 

Chalmers1  vast  collection,  with  the  whole  works  of  all  accessible 
poets  not  contained  in  it,  and  the  best  Anthologies  of  different 
periods,  have  been  twice  systematically  read  through :  and  it  is 
hence  improbable  that  any  omissions  which  may  be  regretted  are 
due  to  oversight.  The  poems  are  printed  entire,  except  in  a  very  few 
instances  (specified  in  the  notes)  where  a  stanza  has  been  omitted. 
The  omissions  have  been  risked  only  when  the  piece  could  be  thus 
brought  to  a  closer  lyrical  unity :  and,  as  essentially  opposed  to  this 
unity,  extracts,  obviously  such,  are  excluded.  In  regard  to  the  text, 
the  purpose  of  the  book  has  appeared  to  justify  the  choice  of  the 
most  poetical  version,  wherever  more  than  one  exists ;  and  much 
labour  has  been  given  to  present  each  poem,  in  disposition,  spelling, 
and  punctuation,  to  the  greatest  advantage. 

In  the  arrangement,  the  most  poetically-effective  order  has  been 
attempted.  The  English  mind  has  passed  through  phases  of 
thought  and  cultivation  so  various  and  so  opposed  during  these  three 
centuries  of  Poetry,  that  a  rapid  passage  between  Old  and  New,  like 
rapid  alteration  of  the  eye's  focus  in  looking  at  the  landscape,  will 
always  be  wearisome  and  hurtful  to  the  sense  of  Beauty.  The 
poems  have  been  therefore  distributed  into  Books  corresponding. 


PREFACE.  9 

I  to  the  ninety  years  closing  about  1616,  II  thence  to  1700,  III  to 
1800,  IV  to  the  half  century  just  ended.  Or,  looking  at  the  Poets 
who  more  or  less  give  each  portion  its  distinctive  character,  they 
might  be  called  the  Books  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Gray,  and 
Wordsworth.  The  volume,  in  this  respect,  so  far  as  the  limitations 
of  its  range  allow,  accurately  reflects  the  natural  growth  and  evolu- 
tion of  our  Poetry.  A  rigidly  chronological  sequence,  however, 
rather  fits  a  collection  aiming  at  instruction  than  at  pleasure,  and 
the  Wisdom  which  comes  through  Pleasure :  —  within  each  book 
the  pieces  have  therefore  been  arranged  in  gradations  of  feeling  or 
subject.  And  it  is  hoped  that  the  contents  of  this  Anthology  will 
thus  be  found  to  present  a  certain  unity,  '  as  episodes,'  in  the  noble 
language  of  Shelley, '  to  that  great  Poem  which  all  poets,  like  the  co- 
operating thoughts  of  one  great  mind,  have  built  up  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world.' 

As  he  closes  his  long  survey,  the  Editor  trusts  he  may  add  with- 
out egotism,  that  he  has  found  the  vague  general  verdict  of  popular 
Fame  more  just  than  those  have  thought,  who,  with  too  severe  a 
criticism,  would  confine  judgments  on  Poetry  to  '  the  selected  few 
of  many  generations.'  Not  many  appear  to  have  gained  reputation 
without  some  gift  or  performance  that,  in  due  degree,  deserved  it : 
and  if  no  verses  by  certain  writers  who  show  less  strength  than 
sweetness,  or  more  thought  than  mastery  in  expression,  are  printed 
in  this  volume,  it  should  not  be  imagined  that  they  have  been  ex- 
cluded without  much  hesitation  and  regret,  —  far  less  that  they  have 
been  slighted.  Throughout  this  vast  and  pathetic  array  of  Singers 
now  silent,  few  have  been  honoured  with  the  name  Poet,  and  have 
not  possessed  a  skill  in  words,  a  sympathy  with  beauty,  a  tenderness 
of  feeling,  or  seriousness  in  reflection,  which  render  their  works, 
although  never  perhaps  attaining  that  loftier  and  finer  excellence 
here  required,  —  better  worth  reading  than  much  of  what  fills  the 
scanty  hours  that  most  men  spare  for  self-improvement,  or  for 
pleasure  in  any  of  its  more  elevated  and  permanent  forms.  And  it 
this  be  true  of  even  mediocre  poetry,  for  how  much  more  are  we 
indebted  to  the  best !  Like  the  fabled  fountain  of  the  Azores,  but 
with  a  more  various  power,  the  magic  of  this  Art  can  confer  on  each 
period  of  life  its  appropriate  blessing :  on  early  years  Experience, 


10  PREFACE. 

on  maturity  Calm,  on  age  Youthfulness.  Poetry  gives  treasures 
4  more  golden  than  gold,'  leading  us  in  higher  and  hea.tnier  ways 
than  those  of  the  world,  and  interpreting  to  us  the  lessons  or  Na- 
ture. But  she  speaks  best  for  herself.  Her  true  accents,  ir  the  plan 
has  been  executed  with  success,  may  be  heard  throughout  the  fol- 
lowing pages:  —  wherever  the  Poets  of  England  are  honoured, 
wherever  the  dominant  language  of  the  world  is  spokeiv  it  is  hoped 
that  they  will  find  fit  audience. 


During  the  years  since  this  book  was  first  published,  not  a  few 
poems  have  appeared  to  the  Editor,  or  have  been  suggested,  as  fit 
candidates  for  insertion.  A  few  of  these  were  then  unprinted :  some 
have  owed  their  claim  to  reconsideration :  most,  to  the  opportunity 
of  studying  our  rare  early  writers,  which  the  excellent  reprints  of 
Dr.  Hannah,  Dr.  Grosart,  Mr.  Arber,  and  others,  have  afforded. 
To  have  added  all  these  pieces,  however,  — even  if  accompanied  by 
a  few  erasements,  —  would  have  given  both  a  cumbrous  enlargement 
and  a  novel  aspect  to  the  selection.  Under  the  advice  and  assist- 
ance, therefore,  of  the  distinguished  Friend  to  whom  gratitude  is 
due  from  all  readers  who  have  found,  or  may  hereafter  find  here  the 
pleasure  and  profit  which  it  is  the  aim  of  Poetry  to  give,  the  very 
best  only  of  the  poems  gathered  in  this  after-harvest  have  been 
admitted.  And  in  this  gleaning  the  original  limit  by  which  the  book 
was  confined  to  those  no  longer  living  has  been  retained,  and  noth- 
ing added  from  those  poets  whose  loss,  —  too  early  even  when  they 
were  taken  in  the  fulness  of  their  days,  —  the  English-speaking 
World  has  had  to  deplore  since  1861. 

December,  1883. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY. 


Boofe  JFiwsU...  ...  _, 

*     i  • 

»  ->  •  »     O  )  , 

I,    ■  .   ,    . , 
spring:  * 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo. 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet. 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 
Spring !  the  sweet  Spring ! 

T.  Nosh. 

II. 

SUMMONS   TO   LOVE. 
Phoebus,  arise ! 
And  paint  the  sable  skies 
With  azure,  white,  and  red :    . 
Rouse  Memnon's  mother  from  her  Tithon's  bed 
That  she  may  thy  career  with  roses  spread : 
The  nightingales  thy  coming  each  where  sing: 
Make  an  eternal  spring ! 


12  BOOK  FIRST. 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead ; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 

And  emperor-like  decore 

With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair : 

Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 

Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious  light. 

—  This  is  that  happy  morn, 
« 'Tb&t  day,  Jorig-wishfM'day 

©f^ail  mylife  so  "dark," 
o    .  (I£  erjsel  ^tarsf  have;  ntrt  my;  ruin  sworn 
••'•  \k&&  &1?e».myiKopes'lbetfay), 
Which,  purely  white,  deserves 
An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 
This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grove 
My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 
Fair  King,  who  all  preserves, 
But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 
And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 
Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Pendus'  streams 
Did  once  thy  heart  surprize. 
Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise : 
If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 
A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre, 
Your  furious  chiding  stay ; 
Let  Zephyr  only  breathe, 
And  with  her  tresses  play. 

—  The  winds  all  silent  are, 
And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 
Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 
Makes  vanish  every  star : 
Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels : 
The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue, 
The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue ; 
Here  is  the  pleasant  place  — 
And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas ! 

W.  Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 


TIME  AND  LOVE,  13 

m. 

TIME  AND  LOVE, 
i. 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  out-worn  buried  age ; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed, 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage ; 

When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store; 

When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay, 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate  — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  Love  away : 

—  This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

IV. 
2. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea. 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flcwer? 

O  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays  ? 

O  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack ! 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid* 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back- 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 

O !  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright 

W.  Shakespeare. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO   HIS   LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 
There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  line'd  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 
A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 
Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 
C.  Marlowe* 

VI. 

A  MADRIGAL. 


Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 
Cannot  live  together : 


A  MADRIGAL,  15 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care ; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather, 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 
Age  like  winter  bare : 
Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short, 
Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame : 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold, 
Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame  :—► 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee ; 
O I  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young  I 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee  — 
O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 
For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 
W,  Shakespeare, 

VII. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat  — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  we  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets— 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

W.  Shakespear*. 


l0  BOOK  FIRST. 

vin. 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey-nonino! 
That  o'er  the  green  cornfield  did  pass 
In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding: 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye 

These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie : 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 
How  that  life  was  but  a  flower : 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho  and  a  hey-nonino  J 
For  love  is  crowne'd  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding : 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

W.  Shakespeare, 
IX. 
PRESENT   IN  ABSENCE. 

Absence,  hear  thou  my  protestation 
Against  thy  strength, 
Distance,  and  length ; 
Do  what  thou  canst  for  alteration : 
For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 
Absence  doth  join,  and  Time  doth  settle. 

Who  loves  a  mistress  of  such  quality, 
He  soon  hath  found 
Affection's  ground 
Beyond  time,  place,  and  all  mortality. 
To  hearts  that  cannot  vary 
Absence  is  present,  Time  doth  tarry. 

By  absence  this  good  means  I  gain, 
That  I  can  catch  her, 
Where  none  can  watch  her, 


ABSENCE.  17 

In  some  close  corner  of  my  brdiu : 
There  I  embrace  and  kiss  nei ; 
And  so  I  both  enjoy  and  miss  her. 
Anon. 


ABSENCE. 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require : 

Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end-hour 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu : 

Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
Save,  where  you  are,  how  happy  you  make  those;* 

So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will, 
Though  you  do  anything,  he  thinks  no  ill. 

W.  Shakespeare, 

XI. 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  Thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere ! 

And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time: 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Beaiing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease : 

Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee. 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute, 


,8  BOOK  FIRST. 

Or  if  they  s*;n<^  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's  near. 

W.  Shakespeare, 

XII. 

A  CONSOLATION. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate ; 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  Thee  —  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  ^ate ; 

For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XIII. 
THE  UNCHANGEABLE. 

O  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify : 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie ; 

That  is  my  home  of  love ;  if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again, 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged, 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 

Never  believe,  though  iif  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd 
To  leave  fcr  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good : 


DIAPHENIA, 

For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  rose :  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 

W.  Shakespeart. 

xrv. 

To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  pride ; 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 
In  process  of  the  season  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh  which  yet  are  green. 

Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial  hand, 
|  Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived ; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred, — 
Ere  you  Were  born,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

W.  Shakespewe. 
XV. 

DIAPHENIA. 

Diaphenia  like  the  daffadowndilly, 

White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 
Heigh  ho,  how  I  do  love  thee  1 

I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 

Are  belove'd  of  their  dams ; 
How  blest  were  I  if  thou  would'st  prove  mc 

Diaphenia  like  the  spreading  roses, 
That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 

Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power ; 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia  like  to  all  things  blessed 
When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed., 


20  BOOK  FIRST. 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
As  the  birds  do  love  the  spring, 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king : 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me! 
H.  ConstaHi. 

XVI. 

ROSALINE. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory-  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines: 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink ; 
The  Gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 
That  Phoebus1  smiling  looks  doth  grace ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprison'd  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes : 

Heigh  ho,  for  Rosaline  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight^ 
Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Wheie  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 


COLIN. 

To  feed  perfection  with  tne  same  \ 
Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine  1 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 
With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 
The  Gods  arc  wounded  in  her  sight ; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 
The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there's  fairer  none, 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine : 
Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ; 
Heigh  ho,  my  heart  I  would  God  that  she  were  mineP 

T.  Lodge. 

XVII. 

COLIN. 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 

Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her ; 
The  winds  blew  calm,  the  birds  did  sing, 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
My  wanton  thoughts  enticed  mine  eye 

To  see  what  was  forbidden : 
But  better  memory  said,  fie  ! 

So  vain  desire  was  chidden  :  — 
Hey  nonny  nonny  O  ! 
Hey  nonny  nonny  J 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell, 

When  fond  imagination 
Seemed  to  see,  but  could  not  tell 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion. 
But  ev'n  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smue, 


BOOK  FIRST. 

And  sometimes  fall  a-weeping, 
So  I  awaked,  as  wise  this  while 
As  wnen  I  fell  a-sleeping :  — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  O ! 
Hey  nonny  nonny ! 

The  Shepherd  Tonic, 

XVIII. 

TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  Simmer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date : 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd : 

And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 

By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd. 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wanderest  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

xrx. 
.    TO  HIS  LOVE. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 
Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev'n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  or*  time,  all,  you  prefiguring; 


LOVE'S  PERJURIES.  23 

And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

W.  Shakespeare, 
XX. 

LOVE'S   PERJURIES. 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day ! 
Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind 
All  unseen  'gan  passage  find ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  1 
But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet ; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee : 
Thou  for  whom  e'en  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were, 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

W.  Shakespemn. 
XXI. 

A  SUPPLICATION. 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 

Forget  not  yet ! 
Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life  ye  know,  since  whan 


34  BOOK  FIRST. 

The  suit,  the  service  none  tell  can ; 

Forget  not  yetl 
Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 

Forget  not  yet ! 
Forget  not !  O,  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss  — 

Forget  not  yet ! 
Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved  — 

Forget  not  this !        Sir  T.  Wyat. 

XXII. 

TO  AURORA. 
O  IF  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm, 
And  dost  prejudge  thy  bliss,  and  spoil  my  rest ; 
Then  thou  would'st  melt  the  ice  out  of  thy  breast 
And  thy  relenting  heart  would  kindly  warm. 

O  if  thy  pride  did  not  our  joys  controul, 
What  world  of  loving  wonders  should'st  thou  see ! 
For  if  I  saw  thee  once  transform'd  in  me, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  I  would  pour  my  soul ; 

Then  all  my  thoughts  should  in  thy  visage  shine, 
And  if  that  aught  mischanced  thou  should'st  not  moan 
Nor  bear  the  burthen  of  thy  griefs  alone  ; 
No,  I  would  have  my  share  in  what  were  thine : 

And  whilst  we  thus  should  make  our  sorrows  one, 
This  happy  harmony  would  make  them  none. 

W.  Alexander,  Earl  of  Sterling 
XXIII. 

TRUE   LOVE. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admift  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 


A  DITTY.  2i> 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  :  — 

0  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixe'd  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  5 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  takea 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom  :  ^ 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

W.  Shakespeare, 

XXIV. 

A  DITTY. 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides: 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 

XXV. 

LOVE'S   OMNIPRESENCE. 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble  swair 
Ascend  *o  heaven,  in  honour  of  my  Love. 

Were  I  as  high  as  hea/en  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 


BOOK  FIRST. 

As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Whereso'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 

My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 

And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 

Till  heaven  wax'd  blind,  and  till  the  world  were  done. 

Whereso'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
W^reso'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

J.  Sylvester, 

XXVI. 

CARPE  DIEM. 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O  stay  and  hear !  your  true-love's  coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low ; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting  — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty,  — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XX  VII. 

WINTER. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 
And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail. 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tuwhoo ! 

Tuwhit !  tuwhoo !    A  merry  note ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


*  REMEMBRANCE,  27 

When  all  around  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
'  And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl  — 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 

Tuwhoo  1 
Tuwhit  i  tuwhoo !    A  merry  note ! 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

W.  Shakespeare, 
XXVIII. 

That  time  ot  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  deathbed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by : 

—  This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

IV.  Shakespeare. 
XXIX. 

REMEMBRANCE. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste ; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight 


28  BOOK  FIRST.  * 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone^ 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  for^-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before  : 

—  But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XXX. 

REVOLUTIONS. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 

Nativity  once  in  the  main  of  light 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 

Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 

And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 

Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth, 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stantf 
Praising  Thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

W.  Shakespeare. 
XXXI. 

Farewell  !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing, 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 

For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 

Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing. 
Or  me.  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking ; 


THE  LIFE    WITHOUT  PASSION.  29 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 

Thus  have  I  had  thee  as  a  dream  doth  flatter ; 
In  sleep,  a  king ;  but  waking,  no  such  matter. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XXXII. 

THE   LIFE  WITHOUT   PASSION. 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmove'd,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow,  — 

They  rightly  do  inherit  Heaven's  graces. 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others,  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity : 

/nor  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XXXIII. 

THE   LOVER'S   APPEAL. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay !  say  nay  !  for  shame, 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among : 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 


SO  BOCK  FIRLT 

As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay  I  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart : 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
And  have  no  isore  oity 
Of  him  that  loveth  theen 
Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay !  say  nay  ! 

Sir  T.  Wyat 

xxxrv. 

THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 

Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  springs 

Every  thing  did  banish  moan 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean'd  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 

And  there  sung  the  dolefullest  ditty 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry; 

Tereu,  tereu,  by  and  by : 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

—  Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mournst  in  vain. 


MADRIGAL.  31 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee, 

Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  the* ; 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead  : 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing : 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

R.  Bamefield. 
XXXV. 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill  adventured  youth : 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow ; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow : 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

A  Dmniel. 
XXXVI. 

MADRIGAL. 
Take  O  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again  — 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 

Seal'd  in  vain ! 

W.  Shakespeare* 


32  BOOK  FIRS7. 

XXXVH. 

LOVE'S   FAREWELL. 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part,  — 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free ; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

—  Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover! 

M.  Drayton. 

XXXVIII. 

TO   HIS   LUTE. 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow 
With  thy  green  mother  in  some  shady  grove, 
When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee  move, 
And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  bestow. 

Since  that  dear  Voice  which  did  thy  sounds  approve, 
Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains  to  flow, 
Is  reft  from  Earth  to  tune  those  spheres  above, 
What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe? 

Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no  more, 
But  orphans'  wailings  to  the  fainting  ear ; 
Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws  forth  a  tear; 
For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before : 

Or  if  that  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign, 
Like  widow'd  turtle  still  her  loss  complain* 

W.  Drvmmond, 


BLIND  LOVE.  33 

XXXIX. 

BLIND   LOVE. 

O  me  !  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight: 
Or  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright? 

If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote, 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's :  No, 

How  can  it?     O  how  can  love's  eye  be  true, 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears? 
No  marvel  then  though  I  mistake  my  view : 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cunning  Love !  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me  blind, 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find ! 

W.  Shakespeare, 

XL. 

THE  UNFAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS. 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 
Scorche'd  the  fruits  in  vale  and  mountain, 
Philon  the  shepherd,  late  forgot, 
Sitting  beside  a  crystal  fountain, 

In  shadow  of  a  green  oak  tree 

Upon  his  pipe  this  song  play'd  he : 
Adieu  Love,  adieu  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu  Love ; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

So  long  as  I  was  in  your  sight 
I  was  your  heart,  your  soul,  and  treasure; 
And  evermore  you  sobb'd  and  sigh'd 
Burning  in  flames  beyond  all  measure : 

— Three  days  endured  your  love  to  me, 

And  it  was  lost  in  other  three  ! 
Adieu  Love,  adieu  Love,  untrue  Lore, 


34  BOOK  FIRST, 

Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu  Love ; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love 

Another  Shepherd  you  did  see 
To  whom  your  heart  was  soon  enchaine*d ; 
Full  soon  your  love  was  leapt  from  me, 
Full  soon  my  place  he  had  obtained. 
Soon  came  a  third,  your  love  to  win, 
And  we  were  out  and  he  was  in. 
Adieu  Love,  adieu  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu  Love ; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Sure  you  have  made  me  passing  glad 
That  you  your  mind  so  soon  removed, 
Before  that  I  the  leisure  had 
To  choose  you  for  my  best  belove"d : 
For  all  your  love  was  past  and  done 
Two  days  before  it  was  begun  :  — 
Adieu  Love,  adieu  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu  Love; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 
Anon, 

XLI. 

A  RENUNCIATION. 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond, 
Or  that  their  love  were  firm,  not  fickle  still, 
I  would  not  marvel  that  they  make  men  bond 
By  service  long  to  purchase  their  good  will ; 
But  when  I  see  how  frail  those  creatures  are, 
I  muse  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  mark  the  choice  they  make,  and  how  they  change, 
How  oft  from  Phoebus  they  do  flee  to  Pan ; 
Unsettled  still,  like  haggards  wild  they  range, 
These  gentle  birds  that  fly  from  man  to  man ; 
Who  would  not  scorn  and  shake  them  from  the  fist, 
And  let  them  fly,  fair  fools,  which  way  they  list? 


MADRIGAL.  3b 

Yet  for  disport  we  fawn  and  flatter  both, 
To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can  please, 
And  train  them  to  our  lure  with  subtle  oath, 
Till,  weary  of  their  wiles,  ourselves  we  ease ; 
And  then  we  say  when  we  their  fancy  try, 
To  play  with  fools,  O  what  a  fool  was  I ! 

E.  Vere,  Earl  of Oxford 

XLII. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho !  sing  heigh  ho !  unto  the  green  holiy : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho !  the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh  ho !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  1 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

W.  Shakespeirt. 

XLIII. 

MADRIGAL. 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife ; 

I  do  detest  my  life, 

And  with  lamenting  cries 

Peace  to  my  soul  to  bring 

Oft  call  that  prince  which  here  doth  monarchize: 


36  BOOK  FIRST. 

—  But  he,  grim  grinning  King, 
Who  caitiffs  scorns,  and  doth  the  blest  surprize, 
Late  having  deck'd  with  beauty's  rose  his  tomb, 
Disdains  to  crop  a  weed,  and  will  not  come. 

W.  Drummond. 

XLIV. 

DIRGE   OF  LOVE. 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 
And  in  sad  cypres  let  me  be  laid ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
D:d  share  it. 

Wot  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

W.  Shakespeare. 


P 


XLV- 

FIDELE. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
T  cr  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney  sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o"  the  great, 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 


A  SEA  DIRGE.  37 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 

Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XLVI. 
A  SEA  DIRGE. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange ; 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  — 

Ding,  dong,  Bell. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XLVII. 

A  LAND   DIRGE. 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 
The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole 
To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm 
And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm ; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 
For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

J.  Webster. 


38  BOOK  FIRST. 

XLVIII. 

POST  MORTEM. 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 

When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust  shall  cover. 

And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 

These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover ; 

Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 

O  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought  — 
4  Had  my  friend's  muse  grown  with  this  growing  age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage : 

But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read,  his  for  his  love.* 

W.  Shakespeare. 

XLIX. 

THE  TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world,  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell ; 

Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 

O  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay ; 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

W.  Shakespeare. 


CUPID  AND   CAMPASPE,  39 


MADRIGAL. 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender'd  in  the  eyes. 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  Fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies : 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
I'll  begin  it,  —  Ding,  dong,  bell. 
—  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

W.  Shakespeare, 

LI. 

CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 

At  cards  for  kisses ;  Cupid  paid : 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows ; 

Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how); 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win: 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes  — 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love !  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me? 
J.  tyye. 

LII. 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow ! 


io  BOOK  FIRST. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow ; 
Bird  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow ; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-red-breast, 

Sing  birds  in  every  furrow ; 
And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow ! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow ! 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow ; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing  birds  in  every  furrow ! 

T.  Heywood. 

Lin. 

PROTHALAMION. 
Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ait 
Sweet-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play  — 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titan's  beams,  which  then  did  glister  fair; 
When  I  (whom  sullen  care, 
Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  princes'  court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away 
Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain), 
Walk'd  forth  to  ease  my  pain 
Along  the  shore  of  silver-streaming  Thames ; 
Whose  rutty  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems, 
Was  painted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And  all  the  meads  adorn'd  with  dainty  gems 
Fit  to  deck  maidens'  bowers, 
And  crown  their  paramours 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 


PR  O  THALAMIC) A.  4 1 

There  in  a  meadow  by  the  river's  side 
A  flock  of  nymphs  I  chanced  to  espy, 
All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 
With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  untied 
As  each  had  been  a  bride  ; 
And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket 
Made  of  fine  twigs,  entraile'd  curiously. 
In  which  they  gather'd  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously 
The  tender  stalks  on  high. 
Of  every  sort  which  in  that  meadow  grew 
They  gather'd  some  ;  the  violet,  pallid  blue, 
The  little  daisy  that  at  evening  closes, 
The  virgin  lily  and  the  primrose  true : 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 
To  deck  their  bridegrooms'  posies 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  sohg. 

With  that  I  saw  two  swans  of  goodly  hue 
Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  lee ; 
Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see ; 
The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strow 
Did  never  whiter  show, 
Nor  Jove  himself,  when  he  a  swan  would  be 
For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear ; 
Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 
Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near; 
So  purely  white  they  were 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them  bare, 
Seem'd  foul  to  them,  and  bade  his  billows  spare, 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 
Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair, 
And  mar  their  beauties  bright 
That  shone  as  Heaven's  light 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long ; 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Eftsoons  the  nymphs,  which  now  had  flowers  their  fill, 


«2  BOOK  FIRST, 

Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood ; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they  stood  amaze'd  still 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fill ; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair 
Of  fowls,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  born,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which  through  the  sky  draw  Venus'  silver  team ; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed, 
But  rather  angels,  or  of  angels1  breed ; 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  summer's  heat,  they  say, 
In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and  weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array ; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 
Even  as  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field, 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield, 
All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew, 
That  like  old  Peneus'  waters  they  did  seem 
When  down  along  by  pleasant  Tempe's  shore 
Scatter' d  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they  stream, 
That  they  appear,  through  lilies'  plenteous  store, 
Like  a  bride's  chamber-floor. 

Two  of  those  nymphs  meanwhile  two  garlands  bound 
Of  freshest  flowers  which  in  that  mead  they  found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array, 
Their  snowy  foreheads  therewithal  they  crown'd; 
Whilst  one  did  sing  this  lay 
Prepared  against  that  day, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

'  Ye  gentle  birds  !  the  world's  fair  ornament, 
And  Heaven's  glory,  whom  this  happy  hour 


PR  O  THALAM1  ON.  43 

Dcth  lead  unto  your  lovers'  blissful  bower, 

Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts  content 

Of  your  love's  complement ; 

And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  queen  of  love, 

With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile, 

Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  virtue  to  remove 

All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 

For  ever  to  assoil. 

Let  endless  peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 

And  blessed  plenty  wait  upon  your  board ; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chaste  abound, 

That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford 

Which  may  your  foes  confound, 

And  make  your  joys  redound 

Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song.' 

So  ended  she ;  and  all  the  rest  around 
To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, 
Which  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long : 
And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour  ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along 
Adown  the  lee  that  to  them  murmur'd  low, 
As  he  would  speak  but  that  he  lack'd  a  tongue, 
Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making  his  stream  run  slow. 
And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 
The  lesser  stars.     So  they,  enrange'd  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend, 
And  their  best  service  lend 
Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came, 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse, 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source. 


14  BOOK  FJRS7. 

Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 

An  house  of  ancient  fame  : 

There  when  they  came  whereas  those  bricky  towers 

The  which  on  Thames  broad  aged  back  do  ride, 

Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers, 

There  whilome  wont  the  Templar-knights  to  bide, 

Till  they  decay'd  through  pride ; 

Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place, 

Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 

Of  that  great  lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 

Whose  want  too  well  now  feels  my  friendless  case ; 

But  ah  !  here  fits  not  well 

Old  woes,  but  joys  to  tell 

Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song.. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer, 

Great  England's  glory  and  the  world's  wide  wonder, 

Whose  dreadful  name  late  thro'  all  Spain  did  thunder, 

And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 

Did  make  to  quake  and  fear : 

Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  chivalry ! 

That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumph's  fame 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory, 

And  endless  happiness  of  thine  own  name 

That  promiseth  the  same  ; 

That  through  thy  prowess  and  victorious  arms 

Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms, 

And  great  Eliza's  glorious  name  may  ring 

Through  all  the  world,  fill'd  with  thy  wide  alarms 

Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 

To  ages  following, 

Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing 
Like  radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hair 
In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair, 
Descended  to  the  river's  open  viewing 


THE  HAPPY  HEART,  fc 

With  a  great  train  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 
Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight 
Which  deck  the  baldric  of  the  Heavens  bright; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side, 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  love's  delight; 
Which,  at  th'  appointed  tide, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

E.  Spenser. 
LIV. 

THE   HAPPY   HEART. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

O  sweet  content  I 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

O  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexdd 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crispe'd  spring? 

O  sweet  content ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears? 

O  punishment! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace ; 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 

T.  Dekker. 


46  BOOK  FIRST. 


LV. 


This  life,  which  seems  so  fair, 
Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 
By  sporting  children's  breath, 
Who  chase  it  every  where 
And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath. 
And  though  it  sometimes  seem  of  its  own  might 
Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fix'd  there, 
And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 
That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 
—  But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear ; 
For  when  'tis  most  admired,  in  a  thought, 
Because  it  erst  was  nought,  it  turns  to  nought. 

IV.  Drummond. 
LVI. 

SOUL  AND   BODY. 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool'd  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 

Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 

Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  :  — 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men, 
And  death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 

W.  Shakespeare. 
LVII. 
LIFE. 

The  World's  a  bubble,  and  the  Life  of  Man 
Less  than  a  span : 


THE  LESSONS   OF  NATURE,  47 

In  his  conception  wretched,  from  the  womb 

So  to  the  tomb  ; 
Curst  from  his  cradle,  and  brought  up'  to  years 

With  cares  and  fears. 
Who  then  to  frail  mortality  shall  trust, 
But  limns  on  water,  or  but  writes  in  dust 

Yet  whilst  with  sorrow  here  we  live  opprest, 

What  life  is  best? 
Courts  are  but  only  superficial  schools 

To  dandle  fools : 
The  rural  parts  are  turn'd  into  a  den 

Of  savage  men : 
And  where's  a  city  from  foul  vice  so  free, 
But  may  be  term'd  the  worst  of  all  the  three  ? 

Domestic  cares  afflict  the  husband's  bed, 

Or  pains  his  head : 
Those  that  live  single,  take  it  for  a  curse, 

Or  do  things  worse  : 
Some  would  have  children :  those  that  have  them,  moan 

Or  wish  them  gone : 
What  is  it,  then,  to  have,  or  have  no  wife, 
But  single  thraldom,  or  a  double  strife  ? 

Our  own  affections  still  at  home  to  please 

Is  a  disease : 
To  cross  the  seas  to  any  foreign  soil, 

Peril  and  toil : 
Wars  with  their  noise  affright  us ;  when  they  cease. 

We  are  worse  in  peace  ;  — 
What  then  remains,  but  that  we  still  should  cry 
For  being  born,  or,  being  born,  to  die? 

Lord  Bacon, 

LVIII. 

THE   LESSONS   OF   NATURE. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care, 


48  BOOK  FIRST. 

Of  him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frame, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare : 

Find  out  his  power  which  wildest  powers  doth  tame. 
His  providence  extending  everywhere, 
His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare, 
In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same. 

But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  with  colour'd  vellum,  leaves  of  gold, 
Fair  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best, 
On  the  great  writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold ; 

Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught, 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

IV.  Drummond. 
LIX. 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move? 
Is  this  the  justice  which  on  Earth  we  find? 
Js  this  that  firm  decree  which  all  doth  bind? 
Are  these  your  influences,  Powers  above  ? 

Those  soiils  which  vice's  moody  mists  most  blind, 
Blind  Fortune,  blindly,  most  their  friend  doth  prove r 
And  they  who  thee,  poor  idol  Virtue !  love, 
Ply  like  a  feather  toss'd  by  storm  and  wind. 

Ah !  if  a  Providence  doth  sway  this  all, 

Why  should  best  minds  groan  under  most  distress? 

Or  why  should  pride  humility  make  thrall, 

And  injuries  the  innocent  oppress? 

Heavens !  hinder,  stop  this  fate ;  or  grant  a  time 
When  good  may  have,  as  well  as  bad,  their  prime t 

W.  DrummoncU 
LX. 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY. 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry— 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  curest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 


SAINT  JOHN  BAPTIST.  49 

And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  Good  attending  captain  111  s  — 

—  Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  Love  alone. 

W.  Shakespeare. 

LXI. 

SAINT  JOHN   BAPTIST. 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  more  harmless  found  than  man,  and  mild 

His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth  spring, 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distill'd ; 
Parch'd  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing 
Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 

There  burst  he  forth :  All  ye  whose  hopes  rely 
On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn, 
Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn ! 

—  Who  listen'd  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry? 

Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 

Rung  from  their  flinty  caves,  Repent!  Repent? 

W.  Drummend. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY. 


33ooft  Second 

LXII. 

ODE  ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRISTS  NATIVITY. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing 
That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  Form,  that  Light  unsufferable, 

And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  Majesty 

Wherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside ;  and,  here  with  us  to  be 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 

And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 

Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 

And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons 

See  how  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road, 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet : 
O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY.  5) 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  quire 

From  out  his  secret  altar  touch'd  with  hallow'd  fire, 

THE   HYMN. 

It  was  the  winter  wild 

While  the  heaven-born  Child 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies ; 

Nature  in  awe  to  him 

Had  dofFd  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw ; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 

She,  crown'd  with,  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere 

His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound 

Was  heard  the  world  around : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung ; 

The  hooke'd  chariot  stood 

Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  arme*d  throng; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  Rovran  Lord  was  by. 


53  BOOK  SECOND. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 

Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began; 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kist 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean  — 

Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmdd 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  nVd  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence ; 

And  will  not  take  their  flight 

For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence ; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 

Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 

Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlighten'd  world  no  more  should  need ; 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree  could  bear 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn 

Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn 

Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 

Full  little  thought  they  than 

That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  j 

Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep 

Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep, 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook  — 

Divinely-warbled  voice 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY.  53 

Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 

The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 

With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  vTOse 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound 

Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat  the  aery  region  thrilling, 

Now  was  almost  won 

To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night  array'd ; 

The  helme'd  Cherubim 

And  sworded  Seraphim 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  display'd, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire 

With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born  Heir. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung; 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres ! 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  base  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow ; 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


54  BOOK  SECOND. 

For  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 

And  speckled  vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 

Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb'd  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering  ,• 

And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace  hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No ; 

This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 

That  on  the  bitter  cross 

Must  redeem  our  loss ; 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify : 

Yet  first,  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep 

The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deej 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 

As  on  mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake : 

The  aged  Earth  aghast 

With  terrour  of  that  blast 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 

When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throna 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 

Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins  ;  for  from  this  happy  day 

The  old  Dragon,  under  ground 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY.  55 

In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway ; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swindges  the  scaly  horrour  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb ; 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arche'd  roof  in  words  deceiving : 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving : 

No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 

And  the  resounding  shore 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament ; 

From  haunted  spring  and  dale 

Edged  with  poplar  pale 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 

With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 

The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth 

And  on  the  holy  hearth 

The  Lars  and  Lemure's  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint ; 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice-batter'd  god  of  Palestine ; 

And  moondd  Ashtaroth 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ; 

The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 

In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn. 


56  BOOK  SECOND. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 

They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 

The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast 

Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove,  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshower'd  grass  with  lowings  loud: 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest ; 

Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud ; 

In  vain  with  timbrell'd  anthems  dark 

The  sable  stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipt  ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 

The  dreaded  infant's  hand ; 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn*, 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 

Longer  dare  abide, 

Nor  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine : 

Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 

Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed 

Curtain'd  with  cloudy  red 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 

The  flocking  shadows  pale 

Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fetter'd  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave ; 

And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest ; 

Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending : 

Heaven's  yoifngest-teeme'd  star 


SONG  FOR  SAINT  CECILIA'S  DAY.  57 

Hath  fixed  her  polish'd  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  hand-maid  lamp  attending : 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harness'd  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

J.  Milton. 

LXIII. 
SONG  FOR  SAINT  CECILIA'S   DAY,    1687. 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began : 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead ! 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

This  universal  frame  began : 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 


58  BOOK  SECOND. 

Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries  '  Hark !  the  foes  come ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat ! ' 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper'd  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh !  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 

The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre : 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher; 
When  to  her  Organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
An  Angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd  — 

Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven ! 

Grand  Chorus. 
As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
^.nd  Music  shall  untune  che  sky. 

/.  Ztrvden. 


ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEMONU.  59 

LXIV. 

ON  THE   LATE   MASSACRE  IN  PIEMONT. 

Avenge,  O  Lord  !  thy  slaughtered  Saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipt  stocks  and  stones 

Forget  not:  In  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  roird 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocksr     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  Heaven.     Their  martyr'd  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant,  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  Thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

y.  Milton. 

LXV. 

HORATIAN  ODE  UPON  CROMWELL'S  RETURN 
FROM  IRELAND. 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 

His  numbers  languishing. 

'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urgdd  his  active  star : 

And  like  the  three-fork'd  lightning  first, 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst. 


60  BOOK  SECOND. 

Did  thorough  his  own  side, 
His  fiery  way  divide  : 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high 

The  emulous,  or  enemy; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 
Is  more  than  to  oppose. 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent ; 
And  Caesar's  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  heaven's  flame ; 
And  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  Man  is  due 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere 
(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot) 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 

And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould. 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  Rights  in  vain  — 
But  those  do  hold  or  break 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak. 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art. 


HORATIAN  ODE. 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Carisbrook's  narrow  case ; 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn : 
While  round  the  armdd  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands : 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 

Nor  call'd  the  Gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bow'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

—  This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  force'd  power : 

So  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed : 
So  much  one  man  can  do 
That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just 
And  fit  for  highest  trust ; 

Nor  yet  grown  stiflfer  with  command, 
3ut  still  in  the  Republic's  hand  — 


62  BOOK  SECOND. 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 
That  can  so  well  obey ! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 
And  (what  he  may)  forbears 
His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs : 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt 
To  lay  them  at  the  Public's  skirt. 
So  when  the  falcon  high 
Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

She,  having  kill'd,  no  more  does  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch, 
Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 
The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

—  What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume  ? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year! 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  states  not  free 

■shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-col our'd  mind, 
But  from  this  valour,  sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid-- 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  Thou,  the  War's  and  Fortune's  son, 

March  indefatigably  on ; 
And  for  the  last  effect 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect: 


L  YCIDAS.  63 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 

A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

A,  MarvelL 

LXVI. 

LYCIDAS. 

Elegy  on  a  Friend  drowned  in  the  Irish  Channel* 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer : 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring, 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string ; 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn ; 
And  as  he  passes,  turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  riU. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eye-lids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 


M  BOOK  SECOND. 

Fattening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night ; 

Oft  till  the  star,  that  rose  at  evening  bright, 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 

Temper'd  to  the  oaten  flute ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 

From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 

And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn : 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays :  — 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherds'  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream : 
Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream  — 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade 


L  YCIDAS.  65 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     '  But  not  the  praise' 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears; 

1  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies : 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed.' 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honour'd  flood 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds  I 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea ; 
He  ask'd  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain? 
And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beakdd  promontory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 
And  sage  Hippotadds  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray'd  < 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope*  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  ri^g'd  with  curses  dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 


56  BOOK  SECOND. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  ajid  his  bonnet  sedge 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe : 
« Ah !  who  hath  reft '  quoth  he  '  my  dearest  pledge ! 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain)  ; 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
*  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies1  sake 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
Blind  mouths  I  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  leaned  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ! 
What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?     They  are  sped 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said : 
—  But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more.* 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelPd  eyes 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honey 'd  showers 


LYCIDAS.  63 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak'd  with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-Attired  woodbine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 

Bid  amarantus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears 

To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise ; 

Ay  me  !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  —  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurPd, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides 

Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 

Visitest  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold, 

—  Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth: 

—  And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth  ! 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean-bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walk'd  the  waves 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  heass  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above 


68  BOOK  SECOND. 

In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rillSt 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray; 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

J.  Milton. 

LXVII. 

ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ; 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 

Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 

They  preach,  « In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest  royallest  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin : 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried 

*  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died! 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings : 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

F.  Beaumont 


THE  LAST  CONQUEROR. 
LXVIII. 

THE  LAST  CONQUEROR- 
Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 

Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are ; 
Though  you  bind-in  every  shore 
And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 

As  night  or  day, 
Yet  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey 
And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 
Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common  men. 

Devouring  Famine,  Plague,  and  War, 

Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 
Death's  servile  emissaries  are ; 

Nor  to  these  alone  confined, 
He  hath  at  will 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill; 
A  smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 
Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a  heart. 

J.  Shirley. 
LXIX. 

DEATH  THE   LEVELLER. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate ; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 


70  BOOK  SECOND. 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow  ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust 
J.  Shirley, 

LXX. 

WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS   INTENDED  TO  THE  CITY 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 

Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms. 

He  can  requite  thee ;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower  r 

The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground :  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

J.  Milton. 

LXXI. 

ON   HIS   BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 


CHARACTER   OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE.  71 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide, — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied? 
I  fondly  ask  :  —  But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies ;  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts  :  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best :  His  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest :  — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

J.  Milton, 

LXXIL 

CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  it  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Or  vice  ;  Who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  r 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend: 


72  BOOK  SECOND. 

—  1  his  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  H.  Wotton. 

LXXIII. 

THE  NOBLE   NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  Man  better  be ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

B.  Jonson. 

LXXIV. 

THE   GIFTS   OF   GOD. 

When  God  at  first  made  Man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by ; 
Let  us  (said  he)  pour  on  him  all  we  can : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 
'      Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  beauty  flow'd,  then  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure : 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  he) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature 

So  both  should  losers  be. 


THE  RETREAT.  73 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast. 

G.  Herbert. 

LXXV. 

THE  RETREAT. 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  th1  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm  trees  1 
But  ah !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way :  — 


74  BOOK  SECOND. 

Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

H.  Vaughan. 
LXXVI. 

TO   MR.   LAWRENCE. 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 

From  the  hard  season  gaining?     Time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch'd,  or  artful  voice 

Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 

He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 

To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

J.  Milton. 
LXXVII. 

TO   CYRIACK  SKINNER. 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench ; 

To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 

In  mirth,  that  after  no  repenting  draws ; 

Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 

And  what  the  Swede  intends,  and  what  the  French. 

To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 

Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way; 

For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 


HYMN  TO  DIANA.  75 

And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day, 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 

J.  Milton. 

LXXVIII. 

HYMN   TO  DIANA. 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 
B.  Jonson. 

LXXIX. 

WISHES   FOR  THE   SUPPOSED  MISTRESS. 

Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me; 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny : 


70  BOOK  SECOND. 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine 

—  Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

And  be  ye  call'd,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie : 

Something  more  than 

Taffata  or  tissue  can, 

Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  command  the  rest : 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow  r 


THE    GREAT  ADVENTURER,  77 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  '  Welcome,  friend.' 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes ;  and  I  wish no  more. 

—  Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows ;    . 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see : 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

■Tis  She,  and  here 

Lo!  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 
My  fancies,  fly  before  ye  ; 
Be  ye  my  fictions  :  —  but  her  story. 
R.  Crasham, 

LXXX. 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURER. 

Over  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 
And  under  the  graves ; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 
Which  Neptune  obey; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 


78  BOOK  SECOND. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie ; 

Where  there  is  no  space 

For  receipt  of  a  fly ; 

Where  the  midge  dares  not  venture 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay ; 

If  love  come,  he  will  enter 

And  soon  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  esteem  him 

A  child  for  his  might ; 

Or  you  may  deem  him 

A  coward  from  his  flight : 

But  if  she  whom  love  doth  honous 

Be  conceal'd  from  the  day, 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him 
By  having  him  confined ; 
And  some  do  suppose  him, 
Poor  thing,  to  be  blind ; 
But  if  ne'er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 
Do  the  best  that  you  may, 
Blind  love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 
Will  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  train  the  eagle 
To  stoop  '.j  your  fist ; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 
The  phoenix  of  the  east ; 
The  lioness,  ye  may  move  her 
To  give  o'er  her  prey; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover: 
He  will  find  out  his  way. 

Anon. 
LXXXI. 

CHILD  AND   MAIDEN. 
Ah,  Chloris !  could  I  now  but  sit 
As  unconcern'd  as  when 


COUNSEL    TO    GIRLS.  79 

Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  happiness  or  pain  1 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 

Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  a  mine  ; 
Age  from  no  face  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  conceal'd  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
So  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  center'd  in  my  breast. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

While  Cupid  at  my  heart 
Still  as  his  mother  favour'd  you 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart : 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part ; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art  — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 

Sir  C.  Sedley, 

LXXXII. 

COUNSEL  TO  GIRLS. 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying : 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  Lamp  of  Heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 


SO  #0 OK  SECOND. 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times,  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time ; 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry : 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

R.  Herrick. 

LXXXIII. 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

Colonel  U  velact. 

LXXXIV. 

ELIZABETH   OF   BOHEML   . 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night. 
Which  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 

More  by  your  number  than  your  lig  t, 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 

Wha*  are  you,  when  the  Moon  shall  rise? 

Ye  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own,- 

What  are  you,  when  the  Rose  is  blown  f 


TO    THE  LADY  MARGARET  LEY.  81 

Ye  curious  chanters  of  the  wood 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays, 
Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents ;  what's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  doth  raise? 

So  when  my  Mistress  shall  be  seen 

In  sweetness  of  her  looks  and  mind, 
By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 

Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind? 

Sir//.  Wotton. 

LXXXV. 

TO  THE   LADY  MARGARET  LEY. 

Daughter  to  that  good  earl,  once  President 
Of  England's  council  and  her  treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstain'd  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  content, 

Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  Darliament 

Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 

At  Chaeronea,  fatal  to  liberty, 

Kill'd  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent ;  — 

Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the  days 
Wherein  your  father  flourish'd,  yet  by  you, 
Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet ; 

So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,  honour'd  Margaret. 
J.  Milton. 

LXXXVI. 

THE  LOVELINESS   OF  LOVE. 

It  is  not  Beauty  I  demand, 
A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair : 


82  BOOK  SECOND, 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 
Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed :  — 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 
A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 
Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers, 

These  are  but  gauds  :  nay  what  are  lips  ? 
Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips 
Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood? 
Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardour  burn  ; 
Poison  can  breath,  that  erst  perfumed; 
There's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 
With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows  there's  nought  within; 
They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride ; 
He  who  the  Syren's  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  Beauty's  bust, 
A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind 
Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 
Yet  never  link'd  with  error  find, — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 
Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 
Like  the  care-burthen'd  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose,—- 

My  earthly  Comforter  !  whose  love 
So  indefeasible  might  be 


THE   TRUE  BEAUTY,  83 

That,  when  my  spirit  wonn'd  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 

Anon. 

LXXXVII. 

THE  TRUE   BEAUTY. 

He  that  loves  a  >  osy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 

Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined. 

Kindle  never-dying  fires  :  — 
Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

T.  Carew. 
LXXXVIII. 

TO  DIANEME. 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives  ;  yours  yet  free 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  lovesick  air; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 
R.  Herrick. 
LXXXIX. 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


84  BOOK  SECOND. 

Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  : 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 
E.  Waller. 

XC. 
TO  CELIA. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  senfst  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself  but  thee ! 

B.  Jonson. 


THE  POETRY  OF  DRESS.  85 

XCI. 
CHERRY-RIPE. 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 

Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow ; 
There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow : 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
—  Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry! 
Anon, 

XCII. 
THE   POETRY   OF   DRESS. 


A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness :  — 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distractidn,  — 
An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher,  — 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly,  — 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat,  — 


86  BOOK  SECOND. 

,A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility,  — 
Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part 

R.  Her  rick. 

XCIII. 
2. 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  it  ine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free ; 
O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me  ! 

R.  Herrick. 

XCIV. 
3- 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit, 
It  doth  so  well  become  her : 

For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 
For  Winter,  Spring,  and  Summer 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 
When  all  her  robes  are  on : 
But  Beauty's  self  she  is 
When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 
Anon. 

xcv. 

ON  A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer : 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 


TO  ANTHEA.  87 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair: 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  Sun  goes  round. 
E.  Waller. 
XCVI. 
TO  ANTHEA  WHO  MAY  COMMAND  HIM 
ANY  THING. 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be  : 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay, 

To  honour  thy  decree : 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see : 
And  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair, 

Under  that  cypress  tree : 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  Death,  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me, 
And  hast  command  of  every  part, 
To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

R.  Herrick, 
XCVII. 
Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 


BOOK  SECOND. 

Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart,  — 
For  those  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 
So  thou  and  I  shall  sever : 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why  — 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  dote  upon  me  ever  1 

Anon. 

XCVIII. 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 

Or  better  than  the  rest ; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them, 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  I  find  —- 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store, 

And  still  make  love  anew? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more, 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true. 

Sir  C.  Sedley. 

XCIX. 
TO  ALTHEA  FROM   PRISON. 

When  Love  with  unconfine'd  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 


TO  ALT  HE  A   FROM  PRISON.  89 

The  Gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crown'd, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free  — 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Colonel  Lovelace, 

C. 

TO  LUCASTA,   ON  GOING   BEYOND  THE   SEAS 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee ; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swallowing  wave- 


90  BOOK  SECOND. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  Angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  the  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  Heaven,  their  earthy  bodies  left  behind. 

Colonel  Lovelace. 

CI. 

ENCOURAGEMENTS   TO   A  LOVER. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  D— 1  take  her! 

Sir  J.  Suckling. 

en. 

A  SUPPLICATION. 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre  ! 
And  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble  tale 


THE  MANLY  HEART.  91 

In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 
Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire: 
Though  so  exalted  she 
And  I  so  lowly  be 
Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony. 

Hark !  how  the  strings  awake  : 
And,  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near, 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 
A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try  ; 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply ; 
Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of  her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre  !  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 

To  cure,  but  not  to  wound, 
And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak  too  wilt  thou  prove 

My  passion  to  remove ; 
Physic  to  other  ills,  thou'rt  nourishment  to  love. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre  ! 
For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale 
In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 
Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire ; 
All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 
Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 
Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die 

A.  Cowley. 

cm. 

THE  MANLY   HEART. 
Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May  — 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me 

What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 


92  BOOK  SECOND. 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind ; 
Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  merit's  value  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
Who  without  them  dare  to  woo ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 
G.  Wither. 
CIV. 

MELANCHOLY. 
Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 


TO  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR.  93 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly: 

There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet 

If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy, 

O  sweetest  Melancholy  1 
Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixe*d  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound ! 
Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  1 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  watmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  ! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomv  valley: 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  ruelanchoJ  y. 

J%  FMcher. 

CV. 

TO  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 

Thy  hue,  dear  pledge,  is  pure  and  bright 
As  in  that  well-rememberM  night 
When  first  thy  mystic  braid  was  wove, 
And  first  my  Agnes  whisper'd  love. 

Since  then  how  often  hast  thou  prest 
The  torrid  zone  of  this  wild  breast, 
Whose  wrath  and  hate  have  sworn  to  dwell 
With  the  first  sin  that  peopled  hell ; 
A  breast  whose  blood's  a  troubled  ocean, 
Each  throb  the  earthquake's  wild  commotion! 

0  if  such  clime  thou  canst  endure 
Yet  keep  thy  hue  unstain'd  and  pure, 
What  conquest  o'er  each  erring  thought 
Of  that  fierce  realm  had  Agnes  wrought %- 

1  had  not  wander'd  far  and  wide 
With  such  an  angel  for  my  guide ; 


BOOK  SECOND. 

Nor  heaven  nor  earth  could  then  reprove  me 
If  she  had  lived,  and  lived  to  love  me. 

Not  then  this  world's  wild  joys  had  been 
To  me  one  savage  hunting  scene, 
My  sole  delight  the  headlong  race 
And  frantic  hurry  of  the  chase ; 
To  start,  pursue,  and  bring  to  bay, 
Rush  in,  drag  down,  and  rend  my  prey, 
Then  —  from  the  carcass  turn  away  1 
Mine  ireful  mood  had  sweetness  tamed, 
And  soothed  each  wound  which  pride  inflamed ; 
Yes,  God  and  man  might  now  approve  me 
If  thou  hadst  lived,  and  lived  to  love  me  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

CVI. 
THE  FORSAKEN   BRIDE. 

0  waly  waly  up  the  bank, 
And  waly  waly  down  the  brae, 

And  waly  waly  yon  burn-side 

Where  I  and  my  Love  wont  to  gae! 

1  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree ; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brak, 
Sae  my  true  Love  did  lichtly  me. 

O  waly  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 
But  when  'tis  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  Love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  loe  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-seat  sail  be  my  bed ; 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  prest  by  me : 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  Love  has  forsaken  me. 


FAIR  HELEN.  y$ 

Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw 
And  shake  the  green  leaves  ait  the  tree? 

0  gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come? 
For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie  ; 
Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  Love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see; 
My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velve*t, 

And  I  mysell  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win ; 

1  had  lockt  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gowd 
And  pinn'd  it  with  a  siller  pin. 

And,  O  !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysell  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me  ? 
Anon. 


CVII. 

FAIR   HELEN. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies : 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea  ! 


Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me  1 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  Love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mail 

1  laid  her  down  wi1  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 


96  BOOK  SECOND. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma\ 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare ! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  'Haste  and  come  to  me!' 

0  Helen  fair  I  O  Helen  chaste  1 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  iett 

*  On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies : 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies. 
Since  my  Love  died  for  me. 
Anotu 
CVIII. 

THE-  TWA  CORBIES. 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 

i  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane « 

The  tane  unto  the  t'other  say, 

*  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  today  ?  '• 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

'  —  In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  Knight; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there, 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair. 

•  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild  fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 

So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

•  Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pick  out  his  bonny  blue  een: 
Wi'  ^c  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 

We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

1  Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane ; 
O'er  k;=  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare. 
The  wi"d  sail  blaw  for  evermair.' 
Anon. 

CIX. 

TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

vVhy  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 

To  blush  and  gently  smile. 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night? 

Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 

May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  . 


BOOK  SECOND. 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  prick 
like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

R.HerriU. 

CX. 

TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon : 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attaint  his  noo? 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  «c 

Will  go  with  you  aloii^. 
We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  Summer's  rain  \ 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

R.  Herrick. 

CXI. 

THOUGHTS   IN  A  GARDEN. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crown'd  from  some  single  herb  or  tree 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verge'd  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 


THOUGHTS  IN  A    GARDEN.  99 

While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men : 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name : 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 
Fair  trees !  where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat : 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race: 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow: 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 
The  nectarine  and  curio,  s  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness ; 


COO  BOOK  SECOND. 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas  ; 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meetl 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new  I 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run : 
And,  as  it  works,  th1  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckon'd,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  I 
A.  Marvell. 
CXII. 

UALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathe'd  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy! 


vall£gro.  \/  : v>  \  v  .       ■•'  *oi 

;  ' '    >    >     >  • '  ■ , ' ,  ] ''',»,'  j 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell     »    ,  >\\  I     •''',,'  »»',  ; 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wing. 

And  the  night-raven  sings  -, 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heaven  yclep'd  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 

Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 

With  two  sister  Graces  more 

To  ivy-crow ne*d  Bacchus  bore : 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying  — 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  in  dew 

Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest,  and  youthful  jollity, 

Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  check, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides:  — 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee 

In  unreprove'd  pleasures  free  ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 


102  .   V  ,;BOOK  SECOND. 

'•  /'  'c!       -  F.rpm  JiLs  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
T*ill  the' dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine : 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill. 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasure? 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 
The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 


VALL&GRO.  103 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses : 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade  ; 
\nd  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sun-shine  holy-day, 
Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail : 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat ; 
She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said ; 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led ; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  corn 
That  ten  day-labourers  couM  not  end ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
£re  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

Tower'd  cities  please  us  then 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 


104  BOOK  SECOND. 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  boldj 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linke'd  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber,  on  a  bed 
Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regain'd  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

J.  Milton. 


IL  PENSEROSO.  105 

CXIII. 

IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred ! 
How  little  you  bestead 

Or  fill  the  fixe'd  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

Bui  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  gueen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea  nymphs,  and  their  powers  oftendhdi 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 
Thee  bright-hair'd  Vesta,  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 
His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain : 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glader 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypres  lawn 


106  300K  SECOND. 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn : 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet,     . 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing: 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure :  — 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheele'd  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 
In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak. 
—  Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy ! 
Thee,  chauntress,  oft,  the  woods  among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  Moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 


IL  PENSEKQSO.  107 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfeu  sound 

Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar: 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  belman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  scepter'd  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops1  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seekf 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 


108  BOOK  SECOND. 

And  who  had  Canace*  to  wife 
That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick'd  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heave'd  stroke, 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow'd  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee  with  honey'd  thigh 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing. 
And  the  waters  murmuring, 
With  such  concert  as  they  keep 
Entice  the  dewy-feather'd  Sleep ; 
And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayM, 


SONG   OF  THE   EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDA,         109 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid : 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high-embowe'd  roof, 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light : 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live, 
y.  Milton. 

CXIV. 

SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS   IN   BERMUDA 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 
*  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 


110  BOOK  SECOND. 

Where  He  the  huge  sea  monsters  wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs. 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's  rage : 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows : 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 
O  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay ! ' 
—  Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note : 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 
A.  MarveiL 


ALEXANDERS  FEAST,  \\\ 

cxv. 

AT  A   SOLEMN  MUSIC. 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy, 
Spnere-oorn  harmonious  Sisters,  Voice  and  Verse! 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixt  power  employ 
Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce 
And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  Song  of  pure  concent 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colour'd  throne 

To  Him  that  sits  thereon. 
With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee ; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow ; 
And  the  Cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  Spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly : 
That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise ; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion^  sin 
Jarr'd  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  sway'd 
In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  Song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  his  celestial  concert  us  unite, 
To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light! 

J.  Milton. 

CXVI. 

ALEXANDER'S   FEAST,   OR,   THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son  —  * 

Aloft  in  awful  state 


112  BOOK  SECOND. 

The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  ; 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 

Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown'd)  ; 

The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 

Sate  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride :  — 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 

None  but  the  brave 

None  but  the  brave 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair  f 

Timotheus  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire 
With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above  — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love  ! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest, 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd, 
And  stamp'd  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  work 
—  The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound  1 
A  present  deity !  they  shout  around  : 
A  present  deity !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound ! 
With  ravish'd  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god ; 
Affects  to  nod 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung : 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ! 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST.  113 

Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums ! 

Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace 

He  shows  his  nonest  face : 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  ;  he  comes,  he  comes ! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 

Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 

Rich  the  treasure 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slaia! 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand  and  check'd  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  Irom  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
—  With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate. 
Revolving  in  his  alter'd  soul 
The  various  turns  of  Chance  below ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move9 


N'  BOOK   SECOND. 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lyaian  measures 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasure* 

War.,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble, 

Honour  but  an  empty  bubble, 

Never  ending,  still  beginning ; 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying: 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee ! 

—  The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause: 

So  Love  was  crown'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 

Gazed  on  the  fair 

Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 

Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again : 

At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  opprest 

The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  ivre  again : 
A  louder  yet.  and  vet  a  louder  strain  \ 
Break  his  bands  of  sleeo  asunder 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark  1  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead 
And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Greciar  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slais 
And  unburied  remain 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST,  US 

Inglorious  on  the  plain : 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew  1 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  higb. 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 

—  The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  : 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy  J 

Thais  led  the  way 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy/ 

—  Thus,  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  sort  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before 

—  Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 
Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down ! 

J.  Dryden. 


THfc  GOLDEN  TREASURY. 


CXVII. 

ODE  ON  THE  PLEASURE  ARISING  FROM 
VICISSITUDE. 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing, 
With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  woos  the  tardy  Spring : 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground, 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 
Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet ; 

Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance 
The  birds  his  presence  greet : 

But  chief,  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 

His  trembling  thrilling  ecstasy ; 

Aim  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight 

Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 

Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly ; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 

The  herd  stood  drooping  by: 
Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow 
No  yesterday  nor  morrow  know ; 
'Tis  Man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 


THE    QUIET  LIFE.  \lf 

Smiles  on  past  Misfortune's  brow 

Soft  Reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  Sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace ; 
While  Hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour, 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lour 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  Pleasure  leads, 

See  a  kindred  Grief  pursue ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  Misery  treads 

Approaching  Comfort  view ; 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe, 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost 

And  breathe  and  walk  again : 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  openh.fe  Paradise. 

T.  Gray, 

cxvra. 

THE  QUIET  LIFE. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire. 


118  BOOK   THIRD. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mix'd  ;  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 

Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 

Tell  where  I  lie. 
A.  Pope. 

CXIX. 

THE  BLIND   BOY. 

0  say  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy ; 

.    What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight, 
O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy ! 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

1  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 

Or  make  it  dav  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 
Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play ; 

And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 
With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy : 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

C.  Gibber. 


ON  A  FAVOURITE   CAT.  119 


cxx. 


ON  A  FAVOURITE   CAT,   DROWNED   IN  A  TUB  OF 
GOLD   FISHES. 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 
The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared : 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 
The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes  — 
She  saw,  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 
The  Genii  of  the  stream : 
Their  s:aly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  view 
Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw : 

A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw 

With  many  an  ardent  wish 

She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize  — 

What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 

What  Cat's  averse  to  Fish? 

Presumptuous  maid!  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent, 
Nor  knew  the  gulf  between  — 
Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled  — 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled ; 
She  tumbled  headlong  in  ! 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  every  watery  God 


120  BOOK   THIRD. 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send  :  — 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard  — 
A  favourite  has  no  friend ! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties  !  undeceived 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 
And  be  with  caution  bold : 
tot  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
»Vnd  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 
^  or  all  that  glisters,  gold  1 

T.  Gray. 

CXXI. 

TO  CHARLOTTE   PULTENEY. 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight, 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 
Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue  ; 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 
Yet  abandon"d  to  thy  will, 
Yet  imagining  no  ill, 
Yet  too  innocent  to  blush ; 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 
To  the  mother-linnet's  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat; 
Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 
Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray ; 
Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest :  — 


RULE   BRITANNIA.  121 

This  thy  present  happy  lot 

This,  in  time  will  be  forgot : 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 

Ever-busy  Time  prepares ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see, 
This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 
A.  Philips. 

CXXII. 

RULE   BRITANNIA. 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain : 
Rule  Britannia  !  Britannia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free 

The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame , 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine  1 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 
Blest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd 


122  BOOK   THIRD. 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair :  — 
Rule  Britannia !  Britannia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves  ! 

J.  Thomson, 
CXXIII. 

THE   BARD. 
Pindaric  Ode. 
Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait! 
Tho1  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!' 
—  Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array:  — 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance ; 
*  To  arms ! '  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch'd  his  quivering  lance 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Stream'd  nke  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air) 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre  : 
'  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert-cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  O  King  !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

'Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hush'd  the  stormy  main : 


THE  BARD.  123 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed . 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie 
Smear'd  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale : 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail; 

The  famish1d  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 
No  more  I  weep ;  They  do  not  sleep ; 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  them  sit;  They  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

*  Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race: 
Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year  and  mark  the  night 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro'  Berkley's  roof  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heaven!  What  terrors  round  him  waitl 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

*  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies  \ 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ? 


124  BOOK   THIRD, 

Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noon-tide  beam  were  born? 
—  Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  Vessel  goes  : 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm : 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hush'd  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening  prey 

*  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havock  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  Consort's  faith,  his  Father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head  I 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread; 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

•  Edward,  lo !  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof;  The  thread  is  spun ;) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove ;  The  work  is  done ;) 
Stay,  O  stay  !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblcss'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western  skies 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 


THE  BARD.  125 

But  O  !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 
Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 

Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul  1 

No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail :  — 

AH  hail,  ye  genuine  kings  !  Britannia's  issue,  hail! 

*  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-Line : 
Her  lien-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play? 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-colour'd  wings 

'  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love 
And  Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 

In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast 
A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  f  a  me :  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign : 
Be  thine  Despair  and  sceptred  Care ; 


126  BOOK   THIRD. 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.'' 
—  He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night 

T.  Gray. 

cxxrv. 

ODE  WRITTEN   IN   MDCCXLVI. 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  Country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returrs  to  deck  their  hallo  w'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 
W.  Collins. 

cxxv. 

LAMENT  FOR  CULLODEN. 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 
Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see ; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas ! 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  ee : 
Drumossie  moor  —  Drumossie  day-- 
A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 
Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see; 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman's  ee  I 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 
A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be ; 


LAMENT  FOR  FLODDEN.  127 

For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 
hine  or  tl 
R.  Burns. 


That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee 


cxxvi. 
LAMENT   FOR  FLODDEN. 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a'  lilting  before  dawn  o'  day ; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  bughts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning, 

Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae ; 
Nae  daffin',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  hies  her  away. 

In  har'st,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 

Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray ; 
At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching  — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 
At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  younkers  are  roaming 

'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play; 
But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie  — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded  away. 
Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border  1 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day  ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the  foremost, 

The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We'll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe-milking; 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

J.  Elliott. 
cxxvir. 

THE  BRAES   OF  YARROW. 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lovei ; 
Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover  1 


»28  BOOK   THIRD. 

For  ever  now,  O  Yarrow  stream ! 
Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow \ 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold  my  Love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow. 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed 
To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page 
To  squire  me  to  his  father's  towers ; 
He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, — 
The  wedding-day  was  fix'd  to-morrow ; 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 
Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met; 
My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him ; 
Clasp'd  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
That  I  should  never  more  behold  him! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost ; 
It  vanish'd  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 
And  gave  a  doleful  groan  thro'  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  look'd 
With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother ; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walk'd 
The  green-wood  path  to  meet  her  brother; 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 
They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look  — 
Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother' 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid ; 
Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west 
And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough ; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 
He  fell  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow. 


WILLY  DROWNED  IN   YARROW,  129 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow  — 
i^U  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 
And  then  with  thee  I'll  sleep  in  Yarrow. 
—  The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek, 
No  other  youth  became  her  marrow ; 
She  found  his  body  in  the  stream, 
And  now  with  him  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 
J.  Logan, 

CXXVIII. 
WILLY  DROWNED   IN  YARROW 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 

Where  bonnie  grows  the  lily, 
I  heard  a  fair  maid  sighing  say 

•  My  wish  be  wi'  sweet  Willie ! 

•  Willie's  rare,  and  Willie's  fair, 

And  Willie's  wondrous  bonny; 
And  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 

'O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 

From  where  my  Love  repaireth, 
Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth 

And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  1 

•O  tell  sweet  Willie  to  come  doun 

And  hear  the  mavis  singing, 
And  see  the  birds  on  ilka  bush 

And  leaves  around  them  hinging. 

•  The  lav'rock  there,  wi'  her  white  breasfc 

And  gentle  throat  sae  narrow ; 

There's  sport  eneuch  for  gentlemen 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow. 

•  O  Leader  haughs  are  wide  and  braid 

And  Yarrow  haughs  are  bonny ; 
There  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
If  e'er  he  married  ony. 


130  BOOK   THIRD. 

*  But  Willie's  gone,  whom  I  thought  on. 

And  does  not  hear  me  weeping ; 
Draws  many  a  tear  frae  true  love's  e1e 

When  other  maids  are  sleeping. 

'Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 
The  night  I'll  male'  it  narrow, 

For  a1  the  live-lang  winter  night 
I  lie  twined  o'  my  marrow. 

'O  came  ye  by  yon  water-side? 

Pou'd  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 
Oi  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green, 

Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willie  ? ' 

She  sought  him  up,  she  sought  him  dowc. 

She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow ; 
Syne,  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 
She  found  him  drown'd  in  Yarrow! 
Anon. 
CXXIX. 

LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

Toll  for  the  Brave ! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  1 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 
His  work  of  glory  done. 


BLACK-EYED  SUSAN,  131 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 
No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main : 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 
His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 
W.  Cowptr. 

cxxx. 
BLACK-EYED   SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard ; 

*OI  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew. 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Rock'd  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sigh'd,  and  cast  his  eyes  below : 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands 
And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 


&i  BOOK   THIRD. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest :  — 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet 

'  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds ;  my  heart  shall  bt 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

'  Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind : 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  Thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

*If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

4  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  Dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye. 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kiss'd,  she  sigh'd,  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land ; 

*  Adieu ! '  she  cries  ;  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

7-  Gay. 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY.  133 

CXXXI. 

SALLY   IN   OUR  ALLEY. 
Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely  — 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day  — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday ; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 
And  often  am  I  blamed 


134  BOOK   THIRD. 

Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 
As  soon  as  text  is  named ; 

I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 
And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again 

O  then  I  shall  have  money; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

Til  give  it  to  my  honey : 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pounds, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbours  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out 

O  then  I'll  marry  Sally,  — 
O  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed, 

But  not  in  our  alley  ! 

H.  Carey. 

CXXXII. 
A  FAREWELL. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o1  wine, 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie ; 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie : 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  of  Leith, 

Fu1  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry, 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranke'd  ready ; 
The  shouts  o1  war  are  heard  afar, 


IF  DOUGHTY  DEEDS.  135 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o1  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar  — 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 
R.  Burns. 

CXXXIII. 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 

Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed; 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap 

Thy  picture  at  my  heart ; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart ! 
Th  n  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee ! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 

I'll  dight  me  in  array ; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch ; 
Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow ; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue ; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  1 


M6  BOOK   THIRD. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love ; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee ! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 

Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

Graham  of  Gartmore, 

CXXXIV. 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade: 

Apt  emblem  ot  a  virtuous  maid  — 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 

Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng : 

With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes; 

Pure-bosomM  as  that  watery  glass, 

And  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face. 

W.  Cowper, 

cxxxv. 

THE   SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile  — 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs ! 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow : 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish  —  and  fear  to  know ! 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast : 
—  And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  I 
A  seraDh  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  cootr***? 

Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  tnee . 


FOR  EVER.  U? 


And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary ! 

£.  Rogers. 

CXXXVI. 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 
An  unrelenting  foe  to  Love, 
And  when  we  meet,  a  mutual  heart 
Come  in  between,  and  bid  us  part? 

Bid  us  sigh  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  wish  and  wish  the  soul  away ; 
Till  youth  and  genial  years  are  flown, 
And  all  the  life  of  life  is  gone? 

But  busy,  busy,  still  art  thou, 
To  bind  the  loveless  joyless  vow, 
The  heart  from  pleasure  to  delude, 
To  join  the  gentle  to  the  rude. 

For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care ; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign, 
Make  but  the  dear  Amanda  mine. 

J,  Thomson, 

CXXXVII. 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
Conveys  it  in  a  borrow'd  name  : 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure, 
But  Cloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre 
Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay  — 
When  Cloe  noted  her  desire 
That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise, 
But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs ; 
And  whilst  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 
I  fix  my  soul  on  Cloe's  eyes. 


138  BOOK   THIRD. 

Fair  Cloe  blush'd  :  Euphelia  frown'd : 
I  sung,  and  gazed;  I  play'd,  and  trembled 
And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 
Remark'd  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 

M.  Prior. 
CXXXVIII. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray,  — 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To   hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 

O.  Goldsmith. 
CXXXIX. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair  1 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu1  o1  care  I 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 
That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 

Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o1  its  love ; 
And  sae  did  I  o1  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  puM  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree  ; 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

R.  Bums. 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  POESY.  139 

CXL. 
THE  PROGRESS   OF  POESY. 
A  Pindaric  Ode. 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take : 
The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them  blow 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  Music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 
Through  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres1  golden  reign ; 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour : 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  re-bellow  to  the  roar. 

O  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell !  the  sullen  Cares 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 
Has  curb'd  the  fury  of  his  car 
And  dropt  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  featherM  king 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing : 
QuenclVd  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey 
Temper'd  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 
The  rosy-crow ndd  Loves  are  seen 
On  Cytherea's  day, 

With  antic  Sport,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 
Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures  ; 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 
Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet: 


140  BOOK   THIRD. 

To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 
Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare: 

Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay : 
With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way : 
O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 
The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await ! 
Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train, 

And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  Fate' 
The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  Muse? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky : 
Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts  of  war. 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 

To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their  feather- ;inctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  Goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame 

Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles,  that  crown  th'  Aegean  deep, 
Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves 
Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  lab'rinths  creep, 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  POESY.  141 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  1 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed  around; 
Every  shade  and  hallow'd  fountain 

Murmur' d  deep  a  solemn  sound  : 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  O  Albion !  next,  thy  sea-encircled  coast 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  Darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  him  the  mighty  Mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  :  the  dauntless  Child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said),  whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year : 
Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy; 
Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  Tears. 

Nor  second  He,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy 
The  secrets  of  the  Abyss  to  spy : 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  Place  and  Time: 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze 
Where  Angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw ;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold  wnere  Dry  den's  less  presumptuous  car 
Wide  o"er  the  fields  of  Glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding  pace. 


l«  BOOK  THIRD. 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore ! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er, 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 

But  ah !  'tis  heard  no  more 

0 1  Lyre  divine,  what  daring  Spirit 
Wakes  thee  now !  Tho'  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  Eagle  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air : 
Vet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun : 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far  — but  far  above  the  Great 

T.  Gray. 
CXLI. 

THE  PASSIONS. 

An  Ode  for  Music. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  raised,  refined: 
'Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound, 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each,  for  Madness  ruled  the  hour, 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 


THE  PASSIONS.  143 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid, 
And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rush'd,  his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  own'd  his  secret  stings; 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair  — 

Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled, 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air, 

'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 
Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  t 
Sdll  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale 
She  caird  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 
And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair;- 

And  longer  had  she  sung :  —  but  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose : 
He  threw  his  blood-stain'd  sword  in  thunder  down; 

And  with  a  withering  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  1 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien, 
While  each  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd  bursting  from  his  head 


144  BOOK   THIRD. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fiVd : 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ! 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mix'd ; 

An  1  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  calPd  on  Hate 

With  eyes  up-raised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired ; 

And  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul : 

And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around 

Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound  ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole, 

Or,  o1er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O !  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known  l 

The  oak-crown'd  Sisters  and  their  chaste-eyed  Queen 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leap'd  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest : 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awaicening  viol 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best: 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 

They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids 

Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing ; 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings. 


ODE   ON  THE  SPRING.  14S 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound \ 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay 
>hook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music  1  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid ! 
Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 
You  learn'd  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endear'd! 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  god-like  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page  ;  — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age, 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound :  — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease : 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece : 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 

W.  Collins. 

CXLII. 

ODE  ON  THE   SPRING. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours 

Vair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flower* 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ' 


146  BOOK   THIRD. 

The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 
The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring : 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 
Their  gather' d  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss  grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  Crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  Proud, 
How  indigent  the  Great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care ; 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  Man : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day, 
In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest : 
Brush'd  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischaoc* 
Or  chi'Vd  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD.  14? 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply: 
Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou? 

A  solitary  fly ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets," 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone  — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 

T.  Gray. 

CXLIII. 

THE   POPLAR   FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  fell'd,  farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  last  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew . 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat ; 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  1  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

^Tis  a  sif  ht  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man; 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  our  enjoyments,  I  see 
Have  a  still  shorter  date-  and  die  sooner  than  we. 

W.  Cowper. 


148  BOOK   THIRD. 

CXLIV. 

TO  A  FIELD  MOUSE. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickering  brattle  !• 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee 
Wi1  murd'ring  pattle  1 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 
Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 
And  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 

What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  li»e 

A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request : 

I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin': 
And  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 
.  O'  foggage  green  ! 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin' 
Baith  snell  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste 

And  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 

And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till,  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  pist 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble 


A    WISH.  149 

But  house  or  hald, 


To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribbie 
And  cranreuch  cauld? 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley, 

And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain. 
For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ! 

And  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  and  fear. 

R.Burms. 

CXLV. 

A  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  earj 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  giver 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 
S.  Rogers. 


15°  BOOK   THIRD. 

CXLVI. 

TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales ; 

O  Nymph  reserved,  —  while  now  the  bright-hair1d  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed, 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum,  — 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  dark'ning  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As  musing  slow  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return. 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  senge 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and  lovelier  still 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  sceae ; 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells. 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 


GRAY'S  ELEGY.  151 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds  or  driving  rain 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover1d  spires ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell ;  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name ! 

W.  Collins. 

CXLVII. 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARDi 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


152  BOOK  THIRD. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shad*; 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ' 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour:  — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 


GXAY'S  ELEGY.  153 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 
Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 
Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


154  BOOK   THIRD. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say. 
Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 
His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 
Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  bome, 


MARY  M ORISON.  I5i 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn. 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 
Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humlle  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven,  'twas  all  he  wish'd,  a  friend 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  triey  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

T.  Gray. 

CXLVIII. 
MARY  MORISON. 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 
That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 
A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha1, 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing,  — 

1  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw : 
Tho1  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a' 
'Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.T 


1"*  BOOK   THIRD. 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his.. 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Monson. 

R.  Bums. 
CXLIX. 

BONNIE  LESLEY. 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexandei, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is. 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anitherl 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say  *  I  canna  wrang  thee  1  * 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thet. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 
R.  Burns. 


HIGHLAND  MARY.  157 

CL. 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June : 

0  my  Luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry : 

Till  a1  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  Dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 
And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve  1 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 
R.  Burns. 

CLI. 

HIGHLAND   MARY. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  rny  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


158  BOOK   THIRD. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But,  O  !  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

R.  Burns. 

CLH. 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame, 
And  a1  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride ; 
But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside : 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was  stown  awa 
My  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea  — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e 
Said,  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  0>  marry  me  1 


DUNCAN  GRAY.  159 

My  heart  it  said  nay ;  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wrack; 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack  —  why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae's  me  ? 

My  father  urgit  sair:  my  mother  didna  speak; 
But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break: 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  at  the  sea; 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he  — 
Till  he  said,  Pm  come  hame  to  marry  thee. 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  I  bad  him  gang  away: 

1  wish  tha:  I  were  dead,  but  Pm  no  like  to  dee; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  A.  Lindsay* 
CLIII. 

DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't : 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  1 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd ; 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig ; 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleert  and  blin\ 
Spak  o1  lowpin'  ower  a  linn  1 


X60  BOOK   THIRD. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide. 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide ; 
Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 
For  a  haughty  hizzie  dee? 
She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  I 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell. 
Meg  grew  sick  —  as  he  grew  heal ; 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 
And  O,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  I 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace ; 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case ; 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith  * 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 

R.  Burns, 

CLIV. 
THE   SAILOR'S  WIFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa*. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 
My  bishop's  satin  gown ; 

For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 
That  Colin's  in  the  town. 


THE  SAILOtCZ   WIFE.  LK>± 

My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on. 

My  stockins  pearly  blue  ; 
It's  a1  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaea, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
Its  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo1  the  coop 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about. 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair — 
And  will  1  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet ! 

If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave : 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again, 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  gteet. 


162  BOOK   THIRD. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa\ 

W.  J.  MickU, 

CLV. 
JEAN. 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  West, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 

And  mony  a  hill  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair: 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

O  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees ; 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 
Hir  p?ss'd  atween  us  twal 

How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 
That  night  she  gaed  awa ! 


JOHN  ANDERSON.  162 

The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 
As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean ! 

R.  Burns, 
CLVI. 

JOHN  ANDERSON. 
John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 
We've  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

R.  Burns. 
CLVII. 

THE  LAND  O'   THE  LEAL. 

I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  its  thaw,  Jean, 

I'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 


|64  BOOK   THIRD. 

To  the  land  o1  the  leal. 
Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  Jean ; 
O  we  grudged  her  right  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal  1 

Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 

And  angels  wait  on  me 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 

This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean; 

We1!!  meet  and  aye  be  fain 
In  the  land  o*  the  leal. 

Lady  Nairn. 
CLVIII. 

ODE  ON  A  DISTANT   PROSPECT  OF    ETON 
COLLEGE. 
Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 

That  crown  the  wat'ry  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way : 

Ah  happy  hills!  ah  pleasing  shade! 

Ah  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 

A  stranger  yet 'to  pain ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


ETON  COLLEGE.  163 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace ; 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
The  captive  linnet  which  enthral? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign 
And  unknown  regions  dare  descry : 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  Hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Theirs  buxom  Health,  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  Wit,  Invention  ever  new, 
And  lively  Cheer,  of  Vigour  born; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light 

That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn. 

Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play  1 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate 


160  BOOK   THIRD. 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train ! 
Ah  shew  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band  \ 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men ! 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  sculks  behind ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  falsehood  those  shall  try 
And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  Vale  of  Years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  :  all  are  men, 
Condemn'd  alike  to  groan ; 


HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY.  167 

The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th1  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Yet,  ah !  why  should  they  know  their  fatt, 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies? 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise! 

No  more  ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

T.  Gray. 
CLIX. 

HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY. 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

When  first  thy  Sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  design'd, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern  rugged  Nurse  !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore : 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  others'  woe 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  Friend,  the  flattering  Foe ; 
By  vain  Prosperity  received 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed 

Wisdom  in  sable  garb  array'd 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 


168  BOOK   THIRD, 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend : 
Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

O,  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head 

Dread  Goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand ! 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Not  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 
With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

Thy  form  benign,  O  Goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart^ 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive,, 
Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive, 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 
What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  Man. 

T.  Gray. 
CLX. 

THE  SOLITUDE   OT  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK. 
I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey ; 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech; 
I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 


THE  SOLITUDE   OF  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.        169 

The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 
My  form  with  indifference  see  ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 
Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  Friendship,  and  Love 
Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
O  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove 
How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more : 

My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 

O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 
Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 
And  the  swift-winge'd  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land 
In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas !  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  seafowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 
The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 
And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 
And  mercy,  encouraging  thought \ 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace 
And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

W.  Cowper, 


HO  BOOK   THIRD, 

CLXI. 

TO  MARY  UNWIN. 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feign'd  they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 

And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 

That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings:  — 

But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright  — 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine ; 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 

W.  Cowper, 

CLxn. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past     % 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last  I 

My  Mary ! 
Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow  — 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary  I 
Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more ; 

My  Mary ! 
For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary  I 


TO    THE  SAME.  VJ\ 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 

Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream ; 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 

My  Mary ! 
Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary ! 
For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 
Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign; 
Yet  gently  press'd,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary  1 
Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two ;  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary  ! 
And  still  to  love,  though  press'd  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 
But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 

With  much  resemblance  of  the  past 

Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last  — 

My  Mary ! 

W.  Cowper. 


172  BOOK   THIRD. 

CLXIII. 

THE  DYING  MAN   IN   HIS  GARDEN. 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day 
Dost  thou  thy  little  spot  survey, 
From  tree  to  tree,  with  doubtful  cheer, 
Pursue  the  progress  of  the  year, 
What  winds  arise,  what  rains  descend, 
When  thou  before  that  year  shalt  end? 

What  do  thy  noontide  walks  avail, 
To  clear  the  leaf,  and  pick  the  snail, 
Then  wantonly  to  death  decree 
An  insect  usefuller  than  thee? 
Thou  and  the  worm  are  brother-kind, 
As  low,  as  earthy,  and  as  blind. 

Vain  wretch !  canst  thou  expect  to  see 
The  downy  peach  make  court  to  thee? 
Or  that  thy  sense  shall  ever  meet 
The  bean-flower's  deep-embosom'd  sweet 
Exhaling  with  an  evening  blast? 
Thy  evenings  then  will  all  be  past ! 

Thy  narrow  pride,  thy  fancied  green 
(For  vanity's  in  little  seen), 
All  must  be  left  when  Death  appears, 
In  spite  of  wishes,  groans,  and  tears ; 
Nor  one  of  all  thy  plants  that  grow 
But  Rosemary  will  with  thee  go. 
G.  SewelL 

CLXIV. 
TO-MORROW. 

In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining, 

May  my  lot  no  less  fortunate  be 
Then  a  snug  elbow-chair  can  afford  for  reclining, 

And  a  cot  that  o'erlooks  the  wide  sea ; 


TO-MORROW.  173 

With  an  ambling  pad-pony  to  pace  o'er  the  lawn, 

While  I  carol  away  idle  sorrow, 
And  blithe  as  the  lark  that  each  day  hails  the  dawn 

Look  forward  with  hope  for  to-morrow. 

With  a  porch  at  my  door,  both  for  shelter  and  shade  too, 

As  the  sun-shine  or  rain  may  prevail ; 
And  a  small  spot  of  ground  for  the  use  of  the  spade  too, 

With  a  barn  for  the  use  of  the  flail : 
A  cow  for  my  dairy,  a  dog  for  my  game, 

And  a  purse  when  a  friend  wants  to  borrow; 
I'll  envy  no  nabob  his  riches  or  fame, 

Nor  what  honours  await  him  to-morrow. 

From  the  bleak  northern  blast  may  my  cot  be  completely 

Secured  by  a  neighbouring  hill ; 
And  at  night  may  repose  steal  upon  me  more  sweetly 

By  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  rill  : 
And  while  peace  and  plenty  I  find  at  my  board, 

With  a  heart  free  from  sickness  and  sorrow, 
With  my  friends  may  I  share  what  to-day  may  afford, 

And  let  them  spread  the  table  to-morrow. 

And  when  I  at  last  must  throw  off  this  frail  covering 

Which  I've  worn  for  three-score  years  and  ten, 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  I'll  not  seek  to  keep  hovering 

Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o'er  again : 
But  my  face  in  the  glass  I'll  serenely  survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and  furrow ; 
As  this  old  worn-out  stuff,  which  is  thread-bare  to-day 

May  become  everlasting  to-morrow. 

—  Collins. 

CLXV. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life !  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 


174  BOOK   THIRD. 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear— 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 

—  Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 

Say  not  Good  Night,  —  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 

A,  U  Barbauld. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY. 


Booft  JFourtlj* 

CLXVI. 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S   HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

—  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  —  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise— 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

J.  Keats. 

CLxvn. 

ODE  ON  THE  POETS. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Doubie-iived  in  regions  new? 

—  Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 


176  BOOK  FOURTH, 

With  the  noise  of  fountains  wonderous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thunderous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  trance'd  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim;« 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new ! 

J.K**ts 


LOVE.  177 

CLXYIII. 

LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armdd  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own 
My  hope  !  my  joy !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 


i78  BOOK  FOURTH. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight  1 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain ; 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

—  His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 


ALL  FOR  LOVE.  179 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  1 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thriird  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame  \ 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved  —  she  stepp'd  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

1  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

S.  T.  Coleridg*, 
CLXIX. 

ALL  FOR  LOVE. 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory ; 


80  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is  wrinkle* J? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled : 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary  — 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory? 

0  Fame !  —  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron. 

CLXX. 

THE  OUTLAW. 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer-queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-Hall 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle-wall 

Was  singing  merrily : 
'O  Brignall  Banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign    ur  English  queen.' 

"  If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 
To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 

Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 
That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 

And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 
As  read  full  well  you  may, 


THE    OUTLAW.  181 

Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.1 
Yet  sung  she  '  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
Td  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

*  I  read  you  by  your  bugle-horn 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger,  sworn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood.' 
•A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.' 
Yet  sung  she  *  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

*  With  burnish'd  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.' 
'  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  O  !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 

*  Maiden !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die  ! 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough 


182  BOOK    FOURTH. 

What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 
Nor  think  what  we  are  now.' 

Chorus. 

Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer-queen. 

Sir  W.  Scott, 
CLXXI. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  Thee ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming: 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 

Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep, 
Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving 

As  an  infant's  asleep : 
So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee 
To  listen  and  adore  thee , 
With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 
Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 
Lord  Byron, 
CLXXII. 

LINES  TO  AN   INDIAN  AIR. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright: 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how? 
To  thy  chamber-window,  Sweet! 


SHE    WALKS  IN  BEAUTY.  183 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The  champak  odours  fail 
like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine 
O  belove'd  as  thou  art  I 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail  1 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 
O !  press  it  close  to  thine  again 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

^  P.  B.  Shelley. 

CLXXIII. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent,  — 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  Byron. 


184  BOOK  FOURTH. 


clxxiv. 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 
The  reason  1rm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

W.  Wordsworth, 
CLXXV. 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be  ; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me. 


THE  LOST  LOVE.  183 

0  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-Jight  in  her  eye : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

H.  Coleridgt, 

CLXXVI. 

1  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden ; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CLXXVII. 
THE  LOST  LOVE. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  O ! 

The  difference  to  me ! 

W.  Wordsivorth. 


1S6  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CLXXVIII. 

I  traveled  among  unknown  men 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 
Nor,  England !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time,  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire ; 
And  she  I  cherish'd  turn'd  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  show'd,  thy  nights  conceal'd 

The  bovvers  where  Lucy  play'd ; 
And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyM. 

W.  Wordsworth. 
CLXXIX. 

THE   EDUCATION   OF   NATURE. 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  '  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown.: 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

*  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  powei 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

'  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 


THE   EDUCATION  OF  NATURE.  182 

And  her's  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

1  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

1  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

'And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell.' 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

W.  Wordsworth. 
CLXXX. 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears : 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Roll'd  round  in  earth.'s  diurnal  course 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


188  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CLXXXI. 

LORD   ULLIN'S   DAUGHTER. 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 
Cries  '  Boatman,  do  not  tarry ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry ! ' 

'Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ? ' 
« O  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this,  Lord  Ullin1s  daughter. 

'And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

'His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  — 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover? ' 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight 
'  I'll  go,  my  chief,  I'm  ready : 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady :  — 

*  And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white 
I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry.' 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armdd  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 


JOCK  CP  HAZELDEAN.  189 

•  O  haste  thee,  haste ! '  the  lady  cries, 

*  Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father/ 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  O  !  too  strong  for  human  hand 
The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing : 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore,  — 
His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade 
His  child  he  did  discover :  — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch'd  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

•  Come  back !  come  back !  ■  he  cried  in  grief 

*  Across  this  stormy  water : 

And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter !  —  O  my  daughter ! ' 

'Twas  vain :  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 
Return  or  aid  preventing : 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 
And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

T.  CampbelL 

CLXXXII. 
JOCK  O'   HAZELDEAN. 

•Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen '  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


190  BOOK  FOURTH. 

*  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen1  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

•  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  you  the  foremost  o1  them  a1 

Shall  ride  our  forest-queen1  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride. 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there : 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha1 ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen  ! 
She's  o'er  the  border,  and  awa1 

Wi1  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

CLXXXIII. 

FREEDOM   AND  LOVE. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there^  no  untying ! 

Yet  remember,  ^idst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  ruing ; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY.  19] 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chidden  ; 
Laughs  and  flies,  when  press'd  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odour  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver, 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever. 

Love's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel : 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured, 

Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging 
Or  the  ringdove's  neck  from  changing? 
No  !  nor  fetter'd  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 

T.  Campbell. 
clxxxiv. 

LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 
All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle- 
Why  not  I  with  thine? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain'd  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 
If  thou  kiss  not  me? 

*  *  Shelley. 


*92  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CLXXXV. 

ECHOES. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
To  Music  at  night 

When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 
Goes  answering  light ! 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 

Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 

Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh,  —  in  youth  sincere 
And  only  then, 

The  sigh  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear- 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 
Breathed  back  again. 

T.  Moore. 

CLXXXVT. 
A  SERENADE. 

Ah  1  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 
Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 

To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 
Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 

The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above 
Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 


TO   THE  EVENING  STAR.  193 

And  high  and  low  the  influence  know-* 
But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

CLXXXVII. 

TO  THE  EVENING   STAR. 

Gem  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even, 
Companion  of  retiring  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  heaven 
Beloved  Star,  dost  thou  delay? 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns 
When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows; 
So  Oue  thy  plighted  love  returns 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose ; 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love  * 

So  Kind  a  star  thou  seemst  to  be, 
Sure  some  en^mour'd  orb  above 
Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee  i 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 
Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O  !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day 
Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 
And  early  rise,  and  long  delay 
Wben  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort 
Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown, 
And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down :  — 

Shine  on  her  sweetly  scented  road 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 
That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 


194  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 
Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue  :  — 

Where,  winnow'd  by  the  gentle  air 
Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow 
And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 
Like  shadows  on  the  mounuin  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline 
In  converse  sweet  to  wander  far  — 
O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  Ruling  Star! 

T.  Campbell, 

CLXXXVIII. 
TO  THE  NIGHT. 

4 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  by  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long-sought  1 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 


TO  A    DISTANT  FRIEND.  195 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

WoukTst  thou  me? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Would'st  thou  me?  —  And  I  replied 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  belovdd  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 

P.  B.  Shelby. 

CLXXXIX. 

TO  A  DISTANT   FRIEND. 

Why  art  v/iou  suent !     Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care  — 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 

Speak !  —  though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to  hold 
A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 

Than  a  forsaken  birds-nest  fill'd  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine  — 
Speak,  that  mv  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


196  BOOK  FOURTH. 


CXC. 


When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  coia, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 

Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this ! 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow; 
It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 
And  light  is  thy  fame : 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken 
And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me 
A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  c  mes  o'er  me  — 
Why  wert  thou  so  dear? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee 
Who  knew  thee  too  well : 
Long,  loi.g  shall  I  rue  thee 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met : 

In  silence  I  grieve 

That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 

If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 

How  should  I  greet  thee? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  By  rem. 


HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY.  197 

CXCI. 

HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December 

Too  happy,  happy  Tree 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity: 

The  north  cannot  undo  them 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them, 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December 
Too  happy,  happy  Brook 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passdd  joy? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it 
Nor  numbe'd  sense  to  steal  it— 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

J.  Keats. 

CXCII. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast 

Parted  for  ever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 


195  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Where  early  violets  die 
Under  the  willow. 

Eleu  loro 
Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day 

Cool  streams  are  laving : 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  O  never! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never ! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying ; 
Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  falsehearted ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 

Ere  life  be  parted  : 
Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it 

Never,  O  never! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never ! 

Sir  W.  UoH. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI.  199 

CXCIII. 

LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI. 

*  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

*0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done. 

*  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too.' 

*  I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful  —  a  fairy's  child, 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

'  I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone } 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 

And  made  sweet  moan. 

'  I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 
For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 

A  fairy's  song. 

'  She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said 

4 1  love  thee  true.1 

«  She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 
And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 


200  BOOK  FOURTH. 

•  And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd —  Ah  !  woe  betide! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

*  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 
They  cried  —  •  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall ! ' 

1 1  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

'  And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing.1 

J.  Keats. 

cxcrv. 
THE   ROVER. 

'  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew 
My  Love ! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 


*  The  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 


He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake 
Upon  the  river  shore, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  LOVE.  2°l 

He  gave  the  bridle-reins  a  shake, 
Said  '  Adieu  for  evermore 
My  Love  ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore.' 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

cxcv. 

THE  FLIGHT   OF   LOVE. 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  — 
When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remember' d  not ; 
When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possesst. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 


202  BOOK  FOURTH. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 
Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 
P.  B.  Shelley. 

CXCVI. 

THE  MAID   OF  NEIDPATH. 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing ; 
And  love,  in  life's  extremity 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though  now  she  sits  on  Neidpatlvs  tower 

To  watch  her  Love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  form  decay 'd  by  pining. 
Till  through  her  wasted  hand,  at  night, 

You  saw  the  taper  shining. 
By  fits  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying; 
By  fits  so  ashy  pale  she  grew 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 

Seem'd  in  her  frame  residing ; 
Before  the  watch-dog  prick'd  his  ear 

She  heard  her  lover's  riding ; 
Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenn'd 

She  knew  and  waved  to  greet  him, 
And  o'er  the  battlement  did  ben/i 

As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 

He  came  —  he  pass'd  —  an  heedless  gaze 
As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing ; 

Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 
Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing  — 


THE  MAID   OF  NEIDPATH.  203 

The  castle-arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 
Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 

Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 
Sir  W.  Scott. 

CXCVII. 

THE  MAID   OF  NEIDPATH. 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child, 

And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her  — 
The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled 

Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover: 
And  he  look'd  up  to  Ellen's  bower 

And  she  look'd  on  her  lover  — 

But  ah!  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 
Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling— 

And  am  I  then  forgot  —  forgot  ? 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 

T.  Campbell. 

CXCVIII. 

Bright  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art  — 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors :  — 


204  BOOK  FOURTH. 

No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  Love's  ripening  breast 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever,  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 

J.  Keats. 

CXCIX. 

THE  TERROR   OF   DEATH. 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-pile'd  books,  in  charact'ry 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain; 

When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starrM  face, 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance; 

And  when  I  feel,  fair  Creature  of  an  hour! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  fairy  power 
Of  unreflecting  love  —  then  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

J.  Keats. 

CC. 

DESIDERIA. 

Surprized  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  wind  — 
I  turn'd  to  share  the  transport  —  O  with  whom 
But  Thee  —  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 

Love,  faithful  love  recall'd  thee  to  my  mind  — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?  through  what  power 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 


ELEGY  ON  THYRZA.  205 

To  my  most  grievous  loss  ?  —  That  thought's  return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCI. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine  eye ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  even  in  the  sky ! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed  like  one  on  the  ear ; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  O  my  Love !  'tis  thy  voice,  from  the  Kingdom  of  Souls 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

T.  Moore, 

CCII. 
ELEGY  ON  THYRZA. 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  forms  so  soft  and  charms  so  rare 

Too  soon  return'd  to  Earth ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow 

So  I  behold  them  not : 


206  BOOK  FOURTH. 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 

That  what  I  loved  and  long  must  lovfc 

Like  common  earth  can  rot; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last, 

As  fervently  as  thou 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  deca; 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd 

The  leaves  must  drop  away. 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade : 


ONE    WORD.  203 

Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past* 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last, 

Extinguished,  not  decay'd; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed 
To  think  I  was  not  near,  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  : 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain 

Than  thus  remember  thee  : 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught  except  its  living  years. 

Lord  Byron, 

CCIII. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  Pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love : 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 


^08  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

ccrv. 
GATHERING   SONG   OF  DONALD  THE  BLACK. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Pibroch  of  Donuil 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons ! 
Come  in  your  war-array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountains  so  rocky: 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 

Leave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear. 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A   FLOWING  SEA.  '*» 

Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades. 

Forward  each  man  set  1 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Knell  for  the  onset  1 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

ccv. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
Ami  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

1  hear  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads» 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 


2io  BOOK  FOURTH. 

The  lightning  flashes  free  — 
While  the  holiow  oak  our  palace  ls9 
Our  heritage  the  sea. 

A.  Cunningham. 


CCVI. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas ! 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  : 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave  — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  heeds  no  bulwarks 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

Wher  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


BATTLE    OF  THE  BALTIC  211 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrilic  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

T.  Campbell. 

CCVII. 

BATTLE   OF   THE    BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  sncae : 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime: 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  .rush'd. 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

'  Hearts  of  oak  ! '  our  captains  cried,  when  each  gu« 


£12  BOOK  FOURTH, 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again    again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ;  — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom :  • 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the*  victor  then 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave, 

'  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  :  — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 

Hut  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King.1 

Then  Denmark* blest  our  chief 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 


ODE    TO  DUTY.  213 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou : 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave !  T.  Campbell, 

CCVIII. 

ODE   TO   DUTY. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  voice  of  God! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  J 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
O  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around  them  cast 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold  * 


214  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Ev'n  now  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need* 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  controul, 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 
Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires :  % 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name ; 
I  long  for  a  repose  which  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  tbee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
O  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And  in  the  light  of  Truth  thy  bondman  let  me  Yive. 

W.  Wordsworth, 


ON  THE   CASTLE   OF  CHILLON.  215 

CCIX. 

ON  THE  CASTLE   OF  CHILLON. 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art  — 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  Thee  alone  can  bind ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd, 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks  efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

Lord  Byron. 

ccx. 

ENGLAND  AND   SWITZERLAND. 
1802. 
Two  Voices  are  there,  one  is  of  the  Sea, 
One  of  the  Mountains,  each  a  mighty  voice : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice. 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 

There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Th.u  fought'st  against  him,  —  but  hast  vainly  striven : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

—  Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft ; 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left 
For,  high-soul'd  ,Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  Thee ! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


216  BOOK  FOURTH. 


CCXI. 


ON  THE  EXTINCTION   OF  THE  VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West ;  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  liberty. 

She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  hersel/  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay, —  . 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reach'd  its  final  day : 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  has  passM  away. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCXII. 

LONDON,   MDCCCII. 

O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show;  mean  handiwork  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom !  —  We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest; 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  Nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry ;  and  these  we  adore : 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more : 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


THE  SAME.  217 

CCXIII. 

THE  SAME. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  • 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 

0  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free ; 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCXIV. 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  nations;  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  —  some  fears  unnamed 

1  had,  my  Country  !  —  am  I  to  be  blamed? 
But  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled : 

What  wonder  if  a  Po  ,t  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  f  r  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

W.  Wordsworth, 


218  BOOK  FOURTH. 

ccxv. 

HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow ; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  staine'd  snow  ; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn  ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  Brave 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 
T.  Campbell. 


AFTER  BLENHEIM.  219 

CCXVI. 

AFTER  BLENHEIM. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh 
4  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,1  said  he, 

*  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory.' 

*I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 
For  many  thousand  men,'  said  he, 

*  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.' 

'Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about,' 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
'Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.' 

'It  was  the  English,'  Kaspar  cried, 
1  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 


220  BOOK  FOURTH. 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  every  body  said,'  quoth  he, 

*  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

«  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly  : 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

'With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then 
And  newborn  baby  died  : 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 

4  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 
After  the  field  was  won ; 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun : 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

After  a  famous  victory. 

*  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro1  won 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene  ; ' 

*  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  ! ' 

Said  little  Wilhelmine ; 
« Nay  .  .  nay  . .  my  little  girl,'  quoth  he, 
« It  was  a  famous  victory. 

*  And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win.1 
'But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?' 

Quoth  little  Peterkin  :  — 
*Why  that  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he, 
'  But  'twas  a  famous  victory.1 

R.  Southey. 


PRO  PATRIA  MORI.  221 

CCXVII. 

PRO   PATRIA  MORI. 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
O!  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ! 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree ; 
For,  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  : 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine ! 
O !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

T.  Moore. 

CCXVIII. 

THE   BURIAL  OF   SIR  JOHN   MOORE 

AT  CORUNNA. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  hiia. 


222  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him,  — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

C.  Wolfe. 

CCXIX. 

SIMON   LEE   THE   OLD    HUNTSMAN. 
In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, 
I've  heard  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 
And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee, 
When  Echo  bandied  round  and  roun^ 
The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 


SIMON  LEE.  m 

In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 
For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 
To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 
The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind ; 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reel'd  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices. 

But  O  the  heavy  change  !  —  bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends  and  kindred,  seG 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty : 

His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 

His  body  dwindled  and  awry 

Rests  upon  ancles  swoln  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

He  has  no  son.  he  has  no  child ; 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 
This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger ; 
But  what  avails  the  land  to  them 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer? 


BOOK  FOURTH. 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

'Tis  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ancles  swell. 

My  gentle  reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  reader !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

O  gentle  reader !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it: 

It  is  no  tale ;  but,  should  you  think, 

Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  totter'd  in  his  hand ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavour 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  work'd  for  ever. 

•  You're  overtask'd,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,'  to  him  I  said; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  profFer'd  aid. 


THE   OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  sever'd, 
At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavour'd. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seem'd  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
—  I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning ; 
Ala 5 !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Has  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCXX. 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women: 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  broth'1' . 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  fr*k*--5<i  dwelling 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  fact*. 


BOOK  FOURTH. 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

C.  Lamb. 

CCXXI. 
THE  JOURNEY   ONWARDS. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us ; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us ! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk  with  joyous  seeming  — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming ; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
O,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us ! 

And  when  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery  wild  and  sweetj 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us  1 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing,  - 


YOUTH  AND  AGE.  223 

So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  dav 

To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

T.  Moore. 

CCXXII. 
YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes  away 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull  decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone  which  fades  so 

fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of  happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess: 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself  comes  down ; 

It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its  own ; 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our  tears, 

And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  distract  the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former  hope  of 

rest ; 
'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray  beneath. 

O  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  what  I  have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a  vanish'd  scene,  — 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish  though  they  be, 
So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would  flow  to  me ! 

Lord  Byron. 

CCXXIII. 

A  LESSON. 

There  is  a  flower,  the  Lesser  Celandine, 

That  shrinks  like  many  more  from  cold  and  rain, 


228  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  'tis  out  again ! 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  flower  I  past, 
And  recognized  it,  though  an  alter'd  form, 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 

I  stopp'd  and  said,  with  inly-mutter'd  voice, 

*  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold ; 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 

But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

*  The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 
It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay ; 

Stiff  in  its  members,  wither'd,  changed  of  hue,' 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  gray. 

To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite  —  then,  worse  truth, 
A  miser's  pensioner  —  behold  our  lot ! 
O  Man  !  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not' 

W.  Wordsworth. 


CCXXIV. 

PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS.  ll<* 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

T.  Hood. 

ccxxv. 

THE   LIGHT  OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me : 
The  smiles,  the  tears 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 


230  BOOK  FOURTH. 

The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  link'd  together 
I've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  I 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

T.  Moore. 

CCXXVI. 
INVOCATION. 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight  1 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again? 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 
Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 

All  but  those  who  need  thee  not 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 
Of  a  trembling  leaf, 


INVOCATION.  231 

Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismay'd ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure  ;  — 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure  ;  — 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difTrence?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love  —  though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee  — 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !  O  come  ! 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home  1 
P.  B.  Shelley. 


232  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CCXXVII. 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION  NEAR  NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight  — 
The  winds1,  the  birds1,  the  ocean-floods'  — 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown: 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion  — 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  Content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walkM  with  inward  glory  crownM  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure; 
o  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 


THE  SCHOLAR.  233 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
CCXXVIII. 
THE   SCHOLAR. 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 

Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old : 

My  never  failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  in  woe ; 

And  while  1  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 

With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 

Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 

And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 

Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  Futurity ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

R.  Southey. 
CCXXIX. 

THE   MERMAID   TAVERN. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 


234  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  Venison  ?    O  generous  food ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  Maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 

Mine  host's  signboard  flew  away 

Nobody  knew  whither,  till 

An  astrologer's  old  quill 

To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story  — 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory 

Underneath  a  new-old  Sign 

Sipping  beverage  divine, 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 

The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac ! 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known  — 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern  — 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
7.  Keats. 

ccxxx. 
THE  PRIDE  OF  YOUTH. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush 

Singing  so  rarely. 

•  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 
When  shall  I  marry  me?' 

— '  When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 


THE  BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS.  23f 

•Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ? ' 
—  *  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

1  The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady ; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady.' 

Sir  W.  ScotL 

CCXXXI. 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  — 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful : 


Z&  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hert 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
O!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full. 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence: 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 


THE  BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS,  237 

From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  J 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  burl'd  — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, 
Over  the  brink  of  it,  — 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  1 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ■ 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 


238  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely 
Cold  inhumanity 
Burning  insanity 
Into  her  rest. 

—  Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast  1 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 

T.HootL 


CCXXXII. 

ELEGY. 

O  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom ! 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread  ; 

Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead! 

Awav !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 
And  thou,  who  telPst  me  to  forget, 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 
Lord  Byron, 


HESTER.  839 

ccxxxm. 

HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply. 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavour. 
A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
\et  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit: 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call :  if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school» 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind. 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning— 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore-warning? 

C.  Lamd. 


240  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CCXXXIV. 

CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 

He"  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest 
The  fount  reappearing 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  I 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary. 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Thou  art  gone ;  and  for  ever ' 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

ccxxxv. 
THE  DEATH   BED. 

We  watchM  her  breathing  thro'  the  night 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 
So  slowly  moved  about, 


ROSABELLE.  M 


As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 

T.Hood. 

CCXXXVI. 

ROSABELLE. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  1 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

•Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  creiK, 

And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay  1 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  today. 

•The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh 

*  Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  today  ?  * 

•*Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  helf 
Tonight  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  lady-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 


tf2  BOOK  FOURTH. 

*  Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If 'tis  not  fiU'd  by  Rosabelle.' 

—  O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 
A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen ; 

Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheath'd  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mafl. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  dcth  hold, 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle  1 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  W.  Scott. 


ON  AN  INFANT  DYING.  243 

CCXXXVII. 

ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN. 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 

A  curious  frame  of  Nature's  work ; 

A  flow'ret  crushed  in  the  bud 

A  nameless  piece  of  Babyhood 

Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying ; 

Extinct,  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying: 

So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 

For  darker  closets  of  the  tomb  ! 

She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 

A  clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 

For  the  long  dark :  ne'er  more  to  see 

Through  glasses  of  mortality. 

Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 

What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 

What  thy  errand  here  below? 

Shall  we  say,  that  Nature  blind 

Check'd  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind 

Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 

A  finish'd  pattern  without  fault? 

Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 

Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire 

(With  her  nine  moons1  long  workings  sicken'd) 

That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken'd? 

Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 

Life  of  health,  and  days  mature: 

Woman's  self  in  miniature! 

Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 

(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 

The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by. 

Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry 

That  babe  or  mother,  one  must  die ; 

So  in  mercy  left  the  stock 

And  cut  the  branch ;  to  save  the  shock 

Of  young  years  widowed,  and  the  pain 

When  Single  State  comes  back  again 


244  BOOK  FOURTH. 

To  the  lone  man  who,  reft  of  wife, 

Thenceforward  drags  a  maime'd  life? 

The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark, 

And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark 

Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall 

More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 

That  has  his  day ;  while  shrivell'd  crones 

Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones ; 

And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 

In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 

—  Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 

Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss : 

Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 

Silver  bells,  and  baby  clothes ; 

Coral  redder  than  those  lips 

Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse ; 

Music  framed  for  infants1  glee, 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee ; 

Though  thou  want'st  not,  thou  shaft  have  them, 

Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 

Let  not  one  be  missing ;  nurse, 

See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 

Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 

Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 

Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave, 

And  we,  churls,  to  thee  deny 

Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie  — 

A  more  harmless  vanity? 

C.  Lwnb. 


ccxxxvm. 

THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  \ 
O  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone  1 
Or  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 


THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET.  24» 

That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 

Seven  years,  alas !  to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child  — 
To  have  despair'd,  have  hoped,  believed, 
And  be  for  evermore  beguiled 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss f 
I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ? 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 
An  object  beauteous  to  behold  ; 
Well  born,  well  bred;  I  sent  him  forth 
Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 
If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace 
As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base; 
And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young  one  dream 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess ; 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress ; 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me !  no,  I  suffer'd  long 
From  that  ill  thought ;  and  being  blind 
Said  '  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong; 
Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed  : '  and  that  is  true ; 
I've  wet*  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 
Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 
O!  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door, 
Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain: 
I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes ; 


246  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise 
And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

Alas !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight; 
They  mount  —  how  short  a  voyage  bring* 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight  1 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea ; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan 
Maim'd,  mangled  by  inhuman  men; 
Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 
Or  hast  been  summon'd  to  the  deep 
Thou,  thou,  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 
An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts :  but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me ;  His  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead; 
For  surely  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds ; 
I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass ; 
The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  past ; 
I  question  things,  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind ; 
And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 


HUNTING  SONG.  247 

Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end ! 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend. 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCXXXIX. 

HUNTING  SONG. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily  merrily  mingle  they, 

*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay 

*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay; 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  baulk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk ; 


248  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott. 
CCXL. 

TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky ! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler !  —  that  love-prompted  strair 

—  Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond  — ■ 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain : 

Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  1  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam  — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home 

W.  Wordsworth. 
CCXLI. 

TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest ; 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest 


TO  A   SKYLARK.  249 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight : 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflow'd 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace  tower, 


250  •       BOOK  FOURTH. 

Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower- 
Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view  \ 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  tbs*ves 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be : 


THE  GREEN  LINNET,  251 

Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCXLII. 

THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 
Of  Spring's  unclouded  weather. 


252  BOOK  FOURTH. 

In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 
And  flowers  and  birds  once  more  to  greet, 
My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  mark'd,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest : 
Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 
In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion ! 
Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array 
Presiding  Spirit  here  today 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 
And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers 
Art  sole  in  thy  employment ; 
A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair, 
Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perch'd  in  ecstasies 
Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 
There,  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 
That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives  — 
A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves ; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 
Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes, 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mock1d  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


TO  THE   CUCKOO,  253 

CCXLIII. 

TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice : 

0  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listen'd  to;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  long'd  for,  never  seen ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessdd  bird  !  '.he  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  1 

W.  Wordsworth 


254  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CCXLIV. 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delvdd  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim 
And  purple-staine'd  mouth ; 
That  T  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  tomorrow. 

Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 


ODE    TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.  255 

Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
CalPd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  muse'd  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  1 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 
The  same  thaj  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 


256  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  that  music :  — do  I  wake  or  sleep? 
J.  Keats. 

CCXLV. 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE, 

Sept.  3,  1802. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair. 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

Ii  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  h'll ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  1 

IV.  Wordsworth. 

CCXLVI. 

OZYMANDIAS   OF   EGYPT. 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand 


NEIDPA  TH.  2S1 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
*  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCXLVII. 

COMPOSED  AT  NEIDPATH  CASTLE,  THE  PROPERTY 
OF  LORD  QUEENSBERRY,  1803. 

Degenerate  Douglas  !  O  the  unworthy  lord  ! 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please 
And  love  of  havoc  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him)  that  he  could  send  forth  word 

To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 

A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees, 

Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like  these 

Beggar'd  and  outraged !  —  Many  hearts  deplored 

The  fate  of  those  old  trees ;  and  oft  with  pain 

The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 

On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed ; 

For  shelter'd  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCXLVIII. 

ADMONITION  TO  A  TRAVELLER. 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye ! 
—  The  lovely  cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 


258  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Hath  stirr'd  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky ! 

But  covet  not  the  abode  —  O  do  not  sigh 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 
Intruders  who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety : 

—  Think  what  the  home  would  be  if  it  were  thine, 

Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants  !  —  Roof,  window,  door, 

The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine : 
Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touch'd  would  melt  away ! 

W.  Wordsworth. 
CCXLIX. 

TO  THE  HIGHLAND  GIRL  OF  INVERSNAID. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks,  this  household  lawn, 

These  trees  —  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn, 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode ; 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fashion'd  in  a  dream ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep ! 

But  O  fair  Creature  !  in  the  light 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers : 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filPd  with  tears. 


TO    THE  HIGHLAND    GIRL.  259 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away ; 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scatter'd  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrass'd  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer : 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread, 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred ; 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brook'd,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  I 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 
O  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  1 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality : 
Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea :  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 


BOOK  FOURTH. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see ! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father,  anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 

Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place ; 

Joy  have  I  had ;  and  going  hence 

I  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 

Then  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  thee  to  part; 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  Thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all ! 

W.  Wordszuortk 

CCL. 

THE  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain. 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 
O  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands : 


THE  REVERIE    OF  POOR  SUSAN.  261 

No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  today? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again! 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ; 
I  listen'd  till  I  had  my  fill ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCLI. 

THE   REVERIE   OF  POOR  SUSAN. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years 
Poor  Susan  has  pass'd  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her?    She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripp'd  with  her  pail; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 


262  buOK  FOURTH. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven :  but  they  fade 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade ; 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  pass'd  away  from  her  eyes ! 

IV.  Wordsworth. 

CCLII. 

TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAR. 

Ariel  to  Miranda :  —  Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn'd  to  pain. 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own ; 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel ; 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity : 


TO  A  LAD\t  WITH  A    GUITAR.  263 

Many  changes  have  been  rung 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  served  your  will. 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  i>  all  remembered  not; 

And  now,  Alas !  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprison'd  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  like  a  grave  — 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow 

A  smile  today,  a  song  tomorrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

FelPd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past, 

And  some  of  spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love  ;  and  so  this  tree,  — 

O  that  such  our  death  may  be  1  — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar; 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skilfully 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 

Whispering  in  enamour'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 

—  For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains. 


UA  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  the  many-voice*d  fountains ; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dei^ 
And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way: 
—  All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  Friend  alone. 

P.  B.  ShelUy, 

CCLIII. 

THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretchM  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bav : 


TO    THE  DAISY.  265 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  :  — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought; 

ror  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCLIV. 

TO   THE   DAISY. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  love  makes  for  thee  ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court 


266  BOOK  FOURTH. 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 

Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

That  thought  comes  next  —  and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest;  — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 

Sweet  Flower !  for  by  that  name  at  last 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past 
.T.  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  Creature ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature ! 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCLV. 

ODE  TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness! 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 


ODE    TO   WINTER.  267 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease ; 
For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  Thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 

Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twindd  flowers ; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  —  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river-sallows  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

J.  Keats. 

CCLVI. 

ODE  TO  WINTER. 

Germany,  December,  1800. 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run, 


268  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue 

His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew :  — 

First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 
The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel-grace  j 

Rosy  Summer,  next  advancing, 
Rush1d  into  her  sire's  embrace  — 
Her  bright-hair'd  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep 

Or  India's  citron-cover'd  isles. 
More  remote,  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne. 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 

But  howling  Winter  fled  afar 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star ; 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
With  barren  darkness  at  his  side 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale  — 
Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form ; 
Till  light's  returning  Lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  northern  field.. 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-cover'd  shield. 

O  sire  of  storms  !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzy  with  her  bloodshot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity  — 
Archangel !  Power  of  desolation  ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 


YARROW  UN  VISITED.  269 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart : 
Then,  sullen  Winter !  hear  my  prayer, 
And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear : 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 

Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lend, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 

Of  Innocence  descend. 

But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds, 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds, 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
O  winds  of  Winter  1  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan? 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  own? 
Alas  !  e'en  your  unhallow'd  breath 

May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low ; 
But  Man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, 

No  bounds  to  human  woe. 

T.  Campbell, 

CCLVII. 

YARROW  UNVISITED. 

1803. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravell'd, 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travell'd  ; 
And  when  we  came  by  Clove  nford, 
Then  said  my  '  winsome  Marrow,1 


270  BOOK  FOURTH. 

'Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.' 

*  Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own, 
Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 
Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow, 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

'  There's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us ; 
And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus ; 
There's  pleasant  Tiviotdale,  a  land 
Made  blythe  with  plough  and  harrow: 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

*  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 
As  worthy  of  your  wonder.' 

—  Strange  words  they  seem'd  of  slight  and  scorn ; 
My  true-love  sigh'd  for  sorrow, 
And  look'd  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow] 

*  O  green,'  said  I,  *  are  Yarrow's  holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing ! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough ; 
•  But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

4  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow ; 


YARROW  VISITED.  271 

The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them ;  will  not  go 
Today,  nor  yet  tomorrow  ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

'  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown ; 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own, 
Ah !  why  should  we  undo  it? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 
We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow ! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

*  If  care  with  freezing  years  should  come 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  Holms  of  Yarrow ! ' 

W.  Wordsworth, 


CCLVIII. 

YARROW   VISITED. 

September,  1814. 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ?  —  This  the  Stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherish'd 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream, 

An  image  that  hath  perish'd? 

O  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  1 


«72  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontroU'd  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  water-Wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 
The  leafy  grove  that  covers : 
And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love : 
Bare  witness,  rueful  Yarrow ! 

Lut  thou  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  imagination 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation : 


X ARROW  VISITED.  275 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 
A  softness  still  and  holy : 
The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay'd, 
And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And  rising  from  those  lofty  groves 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary, 

The  shatter' d  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 

Renown'd  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom. 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in, 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  studious  ease  and  generous  cares, 

And  every  chaste  affection ! 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  day 
The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 
And  on  my  true-love's  forehead  plant 
A  crest  of  blooming  heather  1 
And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own? 
'Twere  no  offence  to  reason ; 
The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see  —  but  not  by  sight  alone 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 

A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 


274  BOOK  FOURTH. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine  — 
Sad  thought !  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

W.  Wordsworth* 

CCLIX. 

THE  INVITATION. 

Best  and  Brightest,  come  away, 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  day, 
Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  morn 
To  hoar  February  born ; 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  the  earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains. 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strew'd  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  Dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs  — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 


THE  RECOLLECTION. 

An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day 
Awake  !  arise  J  and  come  away ! 
To  tne  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  suu> 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers  and  violets 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dim  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  Sun.  p.  b.  Shellq. 


CCLX. 

THE  RECOLLECTION. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
Up,  do  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, 


£76  BOOK  FOURTH. 

For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face., 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 

We  wander'd  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam ; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleepy 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay ; 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies 
Which  scatter'd  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise ! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced,  — 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own : 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean-woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seem'd  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  wide  mountain  waste 


THE  RECOLLECTION.  277 

To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet 

A  magic  circle  traced, 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life ; 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife;  — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  Form  that  fill'd  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough  ; 
Each  seem'd  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulf'd  in  a  world  below; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn. 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green  : 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 

Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 


278  BOOK  FOURTH. 

With  more  than  truth  exprest ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
—  Though  Thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXI. 

BY  THE   SEA. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here; 
If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCLXII. 

TO   THE   EVENING   STAR. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  Thou 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 


DATUR  HORA    QUIETI.  279 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

T.  Campbell, 

CCLXIII. 
DATUR   HORA   QUIETI. 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low, 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 

The  noble  dame  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armour  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row. 

By  day  they  swam  apart, 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 


280  BOOK  FOURTH. 

The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 
Twitters  his  closing  song  — 

All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 
But  Leonard  tarries  long  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott. 

CCLXIV. 

TO   THE   MOON. 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth,  — 
And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXV. 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  Love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 
No  flower  upon  the  ground, 

And  little  motion  in  the  air 
Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXVI. 

TO   SLEEP. 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds,  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 

I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless  ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  281 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth  : 

So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blesse'd  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  I 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCLXVII. 

THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower'd, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  Vision  I  saw ; 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 

Far,  /ar,  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track : 
'Twas  Autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

'Stay  —  stay  with  us! — rest !  —  thou  art  weary  and  worn!'  — 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ;  — 

But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

T.  Campbell. 


282  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CCLXVIII. 

A  DREAM   OF  THE  UNKNOWN. 

I  dream'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way- 
Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring, 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  Thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

Daisies,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colour'd  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with  white 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Rethought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 


THE  INNER    VISION.  283 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand,  — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 
That  I  might  there  present  it  —  O !  to  whom  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXIX. 

THE   INNER  VISION. 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  Traveller  lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene 
The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

—  If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse : 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way  — 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse,  — 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCLXX. 

THE   REALM   OF  FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam  ! 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her; 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloud  ward  soar. 


284  BOOK  FOURTH. 


O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  -, 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming : 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew 

Cloys  with  tasting:     What  do  then? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  cake'd  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

—  Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad 

With  a  mind  self-overawed 

Fancy,  high-commission'd :  —  send  her! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her ; 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heape'd  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  ; 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it ;  —  thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 

And  in  the  same  moment  — hark! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 


THE   REALM  OF  FANCY.  285 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin ; 
Freckled  nest  eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 
Acorns  ripe  clown-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

O  sweet  Fancy !  let  her  loose ; 
Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at?     Where's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary?     Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
Let  then  winge'd  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 


286  BOOK  FOURTH. 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring: 

—  Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam  ! 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

J.  Keats. 

CCLXXI. 
HYMN   TO   THE   SPIRIT  OF  NATURE. 

Life  of  Life  !  Thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire ;  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  Thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  veil  which  seems  to  hide  them, 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  thin  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others :  none  beholds  Thee ; 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 
Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour ; 
And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never,  — 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING. 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 

Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness 
Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 
Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


CCLXXII. 

WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING. 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bowet 
The  periwinkle  trail'd  its  wreaths  ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 
To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man  ? 

W.  Wordsworth 


BOOK  FOURTH, 
CCLXXIII. 

RUTH:   OR  THE   INFLUENCES   OF  NATURE. 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 
Her  father  took  another  mate  ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw, 
And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw 
Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods ; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seem'd  to  live ;  her  thoughts  her  own ; 

Herself  her  own  delight : 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad  nor  gay, 

She  pass'd  her  time ;  and  in  this  way 

Grew  up  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  youth  from  Georgia's  shore  — 

A  military  casque  he  wore 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung; 
But  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 
In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak : 
—  While  he  was  yet  a  boy 


RUTH.  289 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth !  I  guess 

Tne  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought; 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear ; 
Such 'tales  as,  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade, 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls,  a  happy  rout ! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 
Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 
Of  intermingling  hues ; 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  Magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  headl 
The  cypress  and  her  spire  ; 
—  Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake, 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake 


£90  BOOK  FOURTH. 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

And  then  he  said,  *  How  sweet  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

In  sunshine  or  in  shade 

To  wander  with  an  easy  mind, 

And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every- glade  ! 

What  days  and  what  bright  years  !     Ah  mf 

Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  Thee 

So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss ; 

And  all  the  while,1  said  he,  '  to  know 

That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this ! ' 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a  father's  love, 

*  For  there,'  said  he,  '  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

Sweet  Ruth !  and  could  you  go  with  me 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer! 

Beloved  Ruth ! '  —  No  more  he  said. 
The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A  solitary  tear : 

She  thought  again  —  and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

*  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 

We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight* 


RUTH.  191 


A  husband  and  a  wife.' 
Even  so  they  did  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That,  on  those  lonesome  floods 
And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roam'd  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 

The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth  —  so  much  of  heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  Nature  wrought,- 
Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  favour'd  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 


292  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 
For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 
Deliberately  and  undeceived 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  : 
A  man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feignM  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  maiden,  day  and  night, 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn: 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd- 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ? 

Sometimes  most  earnestly  he  said, 
1 0  Ruth !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain 
Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 
When  I,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
Had  cross'd  the  Atlantic  main. 

Before. me  shone  a  glorious  world 
Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfurl'd 
To  music  suddenly : 
I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains 
To  live  at  liberty  ! 

No  more  of  this  —  for  now,  by  thee, 
Dear  Ruth  !  more  happily  set  free, 


RUTH.  293 

With  nobler  zeal  I  burn  ; 
My  soul  from  darkness  is  released 
Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 
The  morning  doth  return.' 

Full  soon  that  better  mind  was  gone ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remain'd,  not  one,~ 
They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more ; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 
And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shor?  : 
But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 
Deserted  his  poor  brid-\  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  !  —  Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad 

And  in  a  prison  housed ; 

And  there  exulting  in  her  wrongs, 

Among  the  music  of  her  songs 

She  fearfully  caroused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 
—  They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell ; 
And  a  clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain  •, 
She  from  her  prison  fled ; 
But  of  the  vagrant  none  took  thought ; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again: 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 


294  BOOR   FOURTH. 

Ran  permanent  and  free ; 
And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 
There  did  she  rest;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  th  i.  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves  —  she  loved  them  still, 

Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  barn  her  Winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  Summer  skies 

And  Summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old. 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have !  but  less 

Of  mind,  than  body's  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 

Repairs  to  a  road-side  ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 

Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 

The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute 
Or  thrown  away :  but  with  a  flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers  ; 
This  flute,  madj  of  a  hemlock  stock, 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Ouantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  passM  her  on  the  hiils 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS.  296 

By  spouts  and  fountains  wild  — 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd, 
A  young  and  happy  child  ! 

Farewell !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 
Ill-fated  Ruth  !  in  hallo w'd  mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be ; 
For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  congregation  sing 
A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCLXXIV. 

VRITTEN   IN   THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS, 
NORTH   ITALY. 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky 
Big  with  cl  -uds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 


29*  BOOK  FOUR  TIT. 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 
He  is  ever  drifted  on 
O'er  the  unreposing  wave, 
To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  agony : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 
My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 
—  'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  paean 
With  which  the  legion'd  rooks  did  hail 
The  Sun's  uprise  majestical : 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 
Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then,  —  as  clouds  of  even 
Fleck'd  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky, — 
So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain 
Starr'd  with  drops  of  golden  rain 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 
And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies,— 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS.  291 

With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire. 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 
Wilt  thou  be,  —  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandon'd  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 


898  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  now: 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolve'd  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frcst  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winge'd  feet 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandall'd  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 
And  of  living  things  each  one ; 
And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 
Darken'd  this  swift  stream  of  song,  — 
Interpenetrated  lie 
By  the  glory  of  the  sky ; 
Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 
Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS.  9,99 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 
Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 
Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  wingeM  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  rememberd  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being), 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf:  even  now,  perhaps. 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folding  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

—  We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air 


500  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies ; 

And  the  Love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  Earth  grow  young  ag-.in ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXXV. 

ODE  TO   THE  WEST  WIND. 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The  winge'd  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 
Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver ;  Hear,  O  hear ! 


ODE    TO    THE    WEST   WIND.  301 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion5 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning ;  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  ev'n  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height  — 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst:  O  hear  I 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer-dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 
Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  O  hear! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 

Than  Thou,  O  uncontrollable  !  If  even 

I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  the  skyey  speed 

Scarce  seem'd  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 


302  BOOK  FOURTH. 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

0  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 

1  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !  I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chaiVd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  ev'n  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  1 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 
Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 
Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  witherM  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 
Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 
The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !  O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXXVI. 

NATURE  AND   THE  POET. 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  painted  by- 
Sir  George  Beaumont. 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day ! 
Whene'er  I  look'd,  thy  image  still  was  there ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  pass'd  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !     It  seem'd  no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 


NATURE  AND    THE  POET.  303 

Ah !  then  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream, — 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made ; 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betray'd. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, —  'tis  so  no  more; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend !  who  would  have  been  the  friend 

If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  work !  —  yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here ; 

That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  1 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 


304  BOOK  FOURTH. 

—  Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time  — 
The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied ;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here :  — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

W.  Wordsworth, 

CCLXXVII. 

THE   POET'S   DREAM. 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be  — 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  Man, 

Nurslings  of  Immortality! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXXVIII. 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  \ 

This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 


KING'S  COLLEGE    CHAPEL.  305 

And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !  Vd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn,  — 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

W.  Wordsworth, 
CCLXXIX. 

WITHIN   KING'S   COLLEGE   CHAPEL,   CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-match'd  aims  the  Architect  who  plann'd 
(Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only)  this  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 

—  Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 

Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  :  — 

So  dcem'd  the  man  who  fashion'd  for  the  sense 

These  ofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scoop'd  into  ten  thousand  cells 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 

Lingering  and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die  — 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
Tbat  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

W.  Wordsworth, 
CCLXXX. 

YOUTH   AND   AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  1mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee  — « 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young? —  Ah,  woful  when  ! 
Ah  !  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Thenl 


306  BOOK  FObRTH. 

This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along : 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weathet 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely ;  Love  is  flower-like ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old ! 
Ere  I  was  old?    Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here  f 

0  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
'Tis  known  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit  — 

It  cannot  be,  that  Thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd :  — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size : 
But  Springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes 
Life  is  but  Thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still. 

Dew-Drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 

When  we  are  old  : 
•—  That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 


THE    TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS.  307 

With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist, 
Yet  hath  out-stay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

S.  T.  Coleridg*. 
CCLXXXI. 

THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun ; 
And'  Matthew  stoppM,  he  lookM,  and  said 
■  The  will  of  God  be  done  V  .   ' 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 
And  by  the  steaming  rills 
We  travell'd  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

'  Our  work,'  said  I,  '  was  well  begun : 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ? ' 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop ; 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 

Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply : 

*  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 

A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 

Full  thirty  years  behind. 

1  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colours,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 


508  BOOK  FOURTH. 

'  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And  coming  to  the  church,  stopp'd  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

'  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang:  —  she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

*  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more  — 

For  so  it  seem'd,  — than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

*  And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew 

A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

*  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 

It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

'  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripp'd  with  foot  so  free ; 
She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

*  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 

I  look'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine  ! ' 

—  Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

W.  Wordsworth, 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  3W 

CCLXXXII. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 

A  Conversation. 

We  tailed  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

*  Now,  Matthew ! '  said  I,  '  let  us  mater 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 

With  some  old  border  song,  or  catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon. 

'  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimo 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
.  Which  you  last  April  made  ! ' 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-hair' d  man  of  glee  : 

*  No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears, 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 

'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

*  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 

How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

*  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 
My  heart  is  idly  stirr'd, 


110  BOOK  FOURTH. 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

*  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  Age  takes  away, 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

*  The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees  — 
The  lark  above  the  hill 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

*  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 

A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free : 

*  But  we  are  press'd  by  heavy  laws ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 

We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

*  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own,- 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 


*  My  days,  my  friend,  are  al 
My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me ;  br*  ' 
Am  I  enough  beloved. 


almost  gone, 


;  but  by  none 


*  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains : 

1  And  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 

Til  be  a  son  to  thee ! " 

At  this  he  grasp'd  my  hand  and  said, 

*  Alas !  that  cannot  be.1 


THE  RIVER   OF  LIFE.  3H 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  Rock 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewilderd  chimes. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

CCLXXXIII. 

THE  RIVER  OF   LIFE. 
The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages : 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  careworn  cheek  grows  wan, 

And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 
Ye  Stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 

Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid? 

It  may  be  strange —  yet  who  would  change 

Time's  course  to  slower  speeding, 
When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone 

And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness ; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportion'd  to  their  sweetness. 

T.  Campbell. 


312  BOOK  FOURTH. 

CCLXXXIV. 

THE   HUMAN   SEASONS. 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year ; 
There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  Man: 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  love* 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 
He  furleth  close ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook :  —    • 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

J.  Keats, 

CCLXXXV. 

A   LAMENT. 

O  World  !  O  Life !  O  Time  1 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 
No  more  —  O  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more  —  O  never  more ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

CCLXXXVI. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 


INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY.  313 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man : 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


CCLXXXVII. 

)DE   ON   INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY   FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight 
To  me  did  seem 
Appareird  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  has  been  of  yore ;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  morel 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  pass'd  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep,  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong : 


314  "  BOOK  FOURTH. 

I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday ;  — 
Thou  child  of  joy 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd  boy ! 

Ye  blesse'd  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  youi  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel—  I  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May  morning ; 
And  the  children  are  pulling 

On  every  side 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide 
Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm  :  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

—  But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting 
And  cometh  from  afar ; 


INTIMA  TIONS   OF  IMMOR  TALITY.  315 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 
Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 


316  BOOK  FOURTH. 

But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  '  humorous  stage* 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  Mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  I 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest, 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY.  317 

Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: 
—  Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprized : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us  —  cherish  —  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour 

Nor  man  nor  boy 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither  — 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore, 
Then,  sing  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  today 


518  BOOK  FOURTH. 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind, 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be, 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering, 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway ; 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won, 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

W.  Wordswortfu 

CCLXXXVIII. 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 


THE  FAIRY  LIFE.  319 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  Thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

P.  B.  Shelley, 

CCLXXXIX. 

THE  FAIRY   LIFE, 
i. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry: 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough ! 

2. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 

Bow-wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark  1  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

W.  Shakespeare* 

ccxc. 

SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep  :  O  Sleep !  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low ; 


320  BOOK  FOURTH. 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 
CCXCI. 

A  SONG   FOR  MUSIC. 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains :  — 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste ! 
But  my  Sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping. 
Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets :  — 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 
When  fair  at  ev'n  he  sets? 

—  Rest  you,  then,  rest,  sad  eyes  f 
Melt  not  in  weeping  ! 
While  She  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping ! 

Anon. 
CCXCII. 

LOVE   TRIUMPHANT. 

E'en  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 


CORINNA'S  MAYING,  32J 

And  having  ranged  and  searched  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 
Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin  : 

So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am ;  so  He  is  mine. 

E'en  so  we  met ;  and  after  long  pursuit, 

E'en  so  we  join'd ;  we  both  became  entire ; 

No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax  and  he  was  flames  of  fire : 
Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine ; 

So  I  my  Best-Belove'd's  am ;  so  He  is  mine. 

If  all  those  glittering  Monarchs  that  command 

The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 
ShouM  tender,  in  exchange,  their  shares  of  land, 

I  w  ould  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all ; 

TheU'  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin : 
The  world's*  but  theirs ;  but  my  Belove'd's  mine. 

F.  Quarles. 

CCXCIII. 

CORINNA'S  MAYING. 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame !    The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 

See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 

Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air : 

Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since  ;  yet  you  not  drest, 

Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said,    • 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns :  'tis  sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in,  — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  ;  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  Spring-time,  tresh  and  green£ 


Ill  BOOK  FOURTH. 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown,  or  hair : 

Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept : 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying: 
^Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a  Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street ;  each  street  a  park 

Made  green,  and  trimm'd  with  trees  :  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch :  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove ; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad :  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May : 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy,  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given ; 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 


A    VISION.  32i 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament: 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd :  —  Yet  we're  not  a  Maying 

—  Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime ; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time ! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short ;  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun :  — 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again : 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade ; 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna !  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

R.  Herrick. 

CCXCIV. 

A  VISION. 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright :  — 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres, 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;  in  which  the  World 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 

H.  Vaughan, 

CCXCV. 

THE   SONG  OF  DAVID. 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things,  the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends : 
From  Whose  right  arm,  beneath  Whose  eyes. 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprize 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 


i24  HOOK  FOURTH. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  He  made 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove  and  hill : 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  secresy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

Tell  them,  I  AM,  Jehovah  said 

To  Moses :  while  Earth  heard  in  dread, 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once,  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  '  O  Lord,  THOU  ART.' 
C.  Smart. 

CCXCVI. 
ABSENCE. 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi1  you,  my  dearie ; 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie, 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 
Anon. 

CCXCVII. 

THE   SHRUBBERY. 

O  happy  shades !  to  me  unblest ! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree  I 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 


THE    CASTAWAY.  323 

But  nVd  unalterable  Care 

Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within, 
Shows  the  same  sadness  everywhere, 

And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  law 

While  Peace  possess'd  these  silent  bowers, 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow ; 
They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 

But  not,  like  me,  to  nourish  woe ! 

Me,  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 
W.  Coxoper, 

CCXCVIII. 

THE  CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 

The  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 

Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 
Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 

With  warmer  wishes  sent. 
He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 
Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away ; 


326  BOOK  FOURTH. 

But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted :  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 
To  check  the.  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford ; 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow. 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 
Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 

Their  haste  himself  condemn, 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld ; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repeird ; 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  '  Adieu  P 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 
His  comrades,  who  before 

Had  heard  his  voice  in  er,ery  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more ; 

For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him ;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere,  . 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear : 


INFANT  JOY.  327 

And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date  : 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd,  each  alone  : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelnVd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 
W.  Cowper. 
CCXCIX. 

INFANT  JOY. 

•  I  have  no  name ; 

I  am  but  two  days  old.' 

—  What  shall  I  call  thee? 

*  I  happy  am  ; 
Joy  is  my  name.' 

—  Sweet  joy  befall  thee ! 

Pretty  joy ! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old ; 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee  : 

Thou  dost  smile : 

I  sing  the  while, 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee ! 

W.  Blake.      • 
CCC. 

TO   MARY. 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be : 


328  BOOK  FOURTH. 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 
The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 

And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 
And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more  1 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ! 
But  when  I  speak  —  thou  dost  not  say, 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary !  thou  art  dead ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene  — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave  — 

And  I  am  now  alone ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore ! 

C.  Wolf*. 

CCCI. 

THE  TROSACHS. 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 
But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 


THE    TROSACHS.  32^ 

Wither'd  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 

Untouch'd,  unbreathed-upon  :  —  Thrice  happy  quest, 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May), 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


NOTES. 

(1861-1884.) 

Summary  of  Book  First. 

The  Elizabethan  Poetry,  as  it  is  rather  vaguely  termed,  forms  the  substance 
of  this  Book,  which  contains  pieces  from  Wyat  under  Henry  VIII.  to  Shake- 
speare midway  through  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  Drummond  who  carried  on 
the  early  manner  to  a  still  later  period.  There  is  here  a  wide  range  of  style ;  — 
from  simplicity  expressed  in  a  language  hardly  yet  broken-in  to  verse,  —  through 
the  pastoral  fancies  and  Italian  conceits  of  the  strictly  Elizabethan  time,  —  to 
the  passionate  reality  of  Shakespeare  :  yet  a  general  uniformity  of  tone  prevails. 
Few  readers  can  fail  to  observe  the  natural  sweetness  of  the  verse,  the  single- 
hearted  straightforwardness  of  the  thoughts :  —  nor  less,  the  limitation  of  subject 
to  the  many  phases  of  one  passion,  which  then  characterized  our  lyrical  poetry, 
—  unless  when,  as  in  especial  with  Shakespeare,  the  '  purple  light  of  Love '  is 
tempered  by  a  spirit  of  sterner  reflection. 

It  should  be  observed  that  this  and  the  following  Summaries  apply  in  the 
main  to  the  Collection  here  presented,  in  which  (besides  its  restriction  to  Lyri- 
cal Poetry)  a  strictly  representative  or  historical  Anthology  has  not  been  aimed 
at.  Great  Excellence,  in  human  art  as  in  human  character,  has  from  the  be- 
ginning of  things  been  even  more  uniform  than  Mediocrity,  by  virtue  of  the 
closeness  of  its  approach  to  Nature :  —  and  so  far  as  the  standard  of  Excellence 
kept  in  view  has  been  attained  in  this  volume,  a  comparative  absence  of  extreme 
or  temporary  phases  in  style,  a  similarity  of  tone  and  manner,  will  be  found 
throughout:  — something  neither  modern  nor  ancient,  but  true  in  all  ages,  and 
like  the  works  of  Creation,  perfect  as  on  the  first  day. 

Page  11,  No.  II.  Rouse  Memnon's  mother :  Awaken  the  Dawn  from  the  dark 
Earth  and  the  clouds  where  she  is  resting.  This  is  one  of  that  limited  class  of 
early  mythes  which  may  be  reasonably  interpreted  as  representations  of  natural 
phenomena.  Aurora  in  the  old  mythology  is  mother  of  Memnon  (the  East), 
and  wife  of  Tithonus  (the  appearances  of  Earth  and  Sky  during  the  last  hours 
of  Night).  She  leaves  him  every  morning  in  renewed  youth,  to  prepare  the 
way  for  Phoebus  (the  Sun),  whilst  Tithonus  remains  in  perpetual  old  age  and 
grayness. 

Page  12,  No.  II.,  line  20.  by  Peneus'  stream  :  Phoebus  loved  the  Nymph 
Daphne  whom  he  met  by  the  river  Peneus  in  the  vale  of  Tempe. 

Page  12,  No.  II.,  line  24.  Amphion's  lyre  :  He  was  said  to  have  built  the  walls 
of  Thebes  to  the  sound  of  his  music. 

Page  12,  No.  II.,  line  32.  Night  like  a  drunkard  reels  :  Compare  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Act  II.,  Scene  3:  '  The  grey-eyed  morn  smiles  '  &c.  —  It  should  be  added 
that  three  lines,  which  appeared  hopelessly  misprinted,  have  been  omitted  in 
this  Poem. 


NOTES.  331 

Page  13,  No.  IV.  Times  chest :  in  which  he  is  figuratively  supposed  to  lay  up 
past  treasures.  So  in  Troilus,  Act  III.,  Scene  3. '  Time  hath  a  wallet  at  his 
back  '  &c.     In  the  Arcadia,  chest  is  used  to  signify  tomb. 

Page  14,  No.  v.  A  fine  example  of  the  highwrought  and  conventional  Eliza* 
bethan  Pastoralism,  which  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  criticize  on  the  ground 
of  the  unshepherdlike  or  unreal  character  of  some  images  suggested.  Stanza  6 
was  perhaps  inserted  by  Izaak  Walton. 

Page  16,  No.  IX.  This  Poem,  with  XXV.  and  XCIV.,  is  taken  from  Davison's 
'  Rhapsody,'  first  published  in  1602.  One  stanza  has  been  here  omitted,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  principle  noticed  in  the  Preface.    Similar  omissions  occur  in 

XL\  .,  LXXXVII.,  C,  CXXVIII.,  CLX.,  CLXV.,  CCXXVII.,  CCXCII.,  CCXCIV.,  CCXCV. 

The  more  serious  abbreviation  by  which  it  has  been  attempted  to  bring  Cra- 
shaw's  '  Wishes '  and  Shelley's  '  Euganean  Hills '  within  the  limits  of  strictei 
lyrical  unity,  is  commended  with  much  diffidence  tc  the  judgment  of  readers 
acquainted  with  the  original  pieces. 

Page  19,  No.  XV.  This  charming  little  poem,  truly  '  old  and  plain,  and  dally- 
ing with  the  innocence  of  love  '  like  that  spoken  of  in  Twelfth  Night,  is  taken, 
with  v.,  XVII.,  XX.,  XXXIV.,  and  XL.,  from  the  most  characteristic  collection  of 
Elizabeth's  reign, '  England's  Helicon,"  first  published  in  1600. 

Page  20,  No.  XVI.  Readers  who  have  visited  Italy  will  be  reminded  of  more 
than  one  picture  by  this  gorgeous  Vision  of  Beauty,  equally  sublime  and  pure 
in  its  Paradisaical  naturalness.  Lodge  wrote  it  on  a  voyage  to  '  the  Islands  of 
Terceras  and  the  Canaries ; '  and  he  seems  to  have  caught,  in  those  southern 
seas,  no  small  portion  of  the  qualities  which  marked  the  almost  contemporary 
Art  of  Venice,  —  the  glory  and  the  glow  of  Veronese,  or  Titian,  or  Tintoret, 
When  he  most  resembles  Titian,  and  all  but  surpasses  him. 

The  clear  (line  1)  is  the  crystalline  or  outermost  heaven  of  the  old  cosmogra- 
phy. For  a  fair  there 's  fairer  none  :  If  you  desire  a  Beauty,  there  is  none  more 
beautiful  than  Rosaline. 

Page  22,  No.  XVIII.  that  fair  thou  owest :  that  beauty  thou  ownest. 

Page  25,  XXIII.  the  star  Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken  : 
apparently,  Whose  stellar  influence  is  uncalculated,  although  his  angular  altitude 
from  the  plane  of  the  astrolabe  or  artificial  horizon  used  by  astrologers  has  been 
determined. 

Page  25,  XXIV.  This  lovely  song  appears,  as  here  given,  in  Puttenham's 
'  Arte  of  English  Poesie,'  1589.  A  longer  and  inferior  form  was  published  in  the 
'Arcadia' of  1590:  but  Puttenham's  prefatory  words  clearly  assign  his  version 
to  Sidney's  own  authorship. 

Page  27,  No.  XXVII.   keel:  skim. 

Page  28,  No.  XXIX.   expense  :  loss. 

Page  28,  No.  XXX.  Nativity  once  in  the  main  of  light :  when  a  star  has  risen 
and  entered  on  the  full  stream  of  light ;  —  another  of  the  astrological  phrases  no 
Jonger  familiar.  Crooked  eclipses:  as  coming  athwart  the  Sun's  apparent 
course. 

Wordsworth,  thinking  probably  of  the  '  Venus '  and  the  '  Lucrece,'  said  finely 
of  Shakespeare :  '  Shakespeare  could  not  have  written  an  Epic ;  he  would  have 
died  of  plethora  of  thought.'  This  prodigality  of  nature  is  exemplified  equally 
in  his  Sonnets.  The  copious  selection  here  given  (which  from  the  wealth  of  the 
material,  required  greater  consideration  than  any  other  portion  of  the  Editor's 


332  NOTES. 

task),  —  contains  many  that  will  not  be  fully  felt  and  understood  without  soma 
earnestness  of  thought  on  the  reader's  part.  But  he  is  not  likely  to  regret  the 
labour. 

Page  29,  No.  xxxi.  upon  misprision  growing  :  either,  granted  in  error,  or,  on 
the  growth  of  contempt. 

Page  29,  No.  xxxii.  With  the  tone  of  this  Sonnet  compare  Hamlet's  '  Give 
me  that  man  That  is  not  passion's  slave  '  &c.  Shakespeare's  writings  show  the 
deepest  sensitiveness  to  passion  :  —  hence  the  attraction  he  felt  in  the  contrasting 
effects  of  apathy. 

Page  29,  No.  XXXIII.  grame  :  sorrow.  Renaissance  influences  long  impeded 
the  return  of  English  poets  to  the  charming  realism  of  this  and  a  few  other  poems 
by  Wyat. 

Page  31,  No.  xxxiv.   Pandion  in  the  ancient  fable  was  father  to  Philomela. 

Page  32,  No.  XXXVIII.  ramage :  confused  noise. 

Page  33,  No.  XXXIX.  censures:  judges. 

Page  33,  No.  XL.  Judging  by  its  style,  this  beautiful  example  of  old  simplicity 
and  feeling  may,  perhaps,  be  referred  to  the  earlier  years  of  Elizabeth.  Late  for- 
got :  lately. 

Page  34,  No.  XLI.  haggards  :  the  least  tameable  hawks. 

Page  36,  No.  XLIV.  cypres  or  Cyprus,  —  used  by  the  old  writers  for  crape; 
whether  from  the  French  crespe  or  from  the  Island.  Its  accidental  similarity  in 
spelling  to  cypress  has,  here  and  in  Milton's  Penseroso,  probably  confused  read- 
ers. 

Page  37,  Nos.  XLVI.,  XLVii.  *  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  funeral  dirge,* 
says  Charles  Lamb, '  except  the  ditty  which  reminds  Ferdinand  of  his  drowned 
father  in  the  Tempest.  As  that  is  of  the  water,  watery ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feeling,  which  seems  to  resolve  itself  into 
the  element  which  it  contemplates.' 

Page  39,  No.  LI.  crystal:  fairness. 

Page  40,  No.  Lin.  This '  Spousal  Verse  'was  written  in  honour  of  the  Ladies 
Elizabeth  and  Katherine  Somerset.  Nowhere  has  Spenser  more  emphatically 
displayed  himself  as  the  very  Poet  of  Beauty:  The  Renaissance  impulse  in  Eng- 
land is  here  seen  at  its  highest  and  purest. 

The  genius  of  Spenser,  like  Chaucer's,  does  itself  justice  only  in  poems  of 
some  length.  Hence  it  is  impossible  to  represent  it  in  this  volume  by  other 
pieces  of  equal  merit,  but  of  impracticable  dimensions.  And  the  same  applies 
to  such  poems  as  The  Ancient  Mariner  and  Adonais. 

Page  41,  No.  LIIL,  line  9.  feateously  :  elegantly. 

Page  43,  No.  LIIL,  line  29.    shend  :  put  out 

Page  44,  No.  LIIL,  line  16.  a  noble  peer :  Robert  Devereux,  second  Lord 
Essex,  then  at  the  height  of  his  brief  triumph  after  taking  Cadiz :  hence  the 
allusion  following  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  placed  near  Gades  by  ancient  legend. 
Line  28.    Eliza  :  Elizabeth. 

Page  45,  No.  liil,  line  7.  twins  of  Jove :  the  stars  Castor  and  Pollux. 
Line  8.   baldric,  belt ;  the  zodiac. 

Page  46,  No.  LVIL  A  fine  example  of  a  peculiar  class  of  Poetry ;  — that  written 
by  thoughtful  men  who  practised  this  Art  but  little.  Wotton's,  LXXIL,  is  another. 
Jeremy  Taylor,  Bishop  Berkeley,  Dr.  Johnson,  Lord  Macaulay.  have  left  similar 
specimens. 


NOTES.  333 


Summary  of  Book  Second. 

THIS  division,  embracing  the  latter  eighty  years  of  the  Seventeenth  Century, 
contains  the  close  of  our  Early  poetical  style  and  the  commencement  of  the 
Modern.  In  Dryden  we  see  the  first  master  of  the  new:  in  Milton,  whose 
genius  dominates  here  as  Shakespeare's  in  the  former  book,  —  the  crown  and 
consummation  of  the  early  period.  Their  splendid  Odes  are  far  in  advance  of 
any  prior  attempts,  Spenser's  excepted :  they  exhibit  that  wider  and  grander 
range  which  years  and  experience  and  the  struggles  of  the  time  conferred  on 
Poetry.  Our  Muses  now  give  expression  to  political  feeling,  to  religious  thought, 
to  a  high  philosophic  statesmanship  in  writers  such  as  Marvell,  Herbert,  and 
Wotton  :  whilst  in  Marvell  and  Milton,  again,  we  find  noble  attempts,  hitherto 
rare  in  our  literature,  at  pure  description  of  nature,  destined  in  our  own  age  to 
be  continued  and  equalled.  Meanwhile  the  poetry  of  simple  passion,  although 
before  1660  often  deformed  by  verbal  fancies  and  conceits  of  thought,  and  after- 
wards by  levity  and  an  artificial  tone,  —  produced  in  Herrick  and  Waller  some 
charming  pieces  of  more  finished  art  than  the  Elizabethan  :  until  in  the  courtly 
compliments  of  Sedley  it  seems  to  exhaust  itself,  and  lie  almost  dormant  for  the 
hundred  years  between  the  days  of  Wither  and  Suckling  and  the  days  of  Burns 
and  Cowper. — That  the  change  from  our  early  style  to  the  modern  brought  with 
it  at  first  a  loss  of  nature  and  simplicity  is  undeniable :  yet  the  far  bolder  and 
wider  scope  which  Poetry  took  between  1620  and  1700,  and  the  successful  efforts 
then  made  to  gain  greater  clearness  in  expression,  in  their  results  have  been  no 
slight  compensation. 

Page  52,  No.  LXII.,  line  4.  whist:  hushed.  Line  28.  than :  obsolete  for 
then.     Line  29.  Pan  :  used  here  for  the  Lord  of  all. 

Page  55,  No.  LXII.,  line  23.  Lars  and  Lemures  :  household  gods  and  spirits 
of  relations  dead.  Flamens  (line  26)  Roman  priests.  That  twice-batter  d  god 
(line  31)  Dagon. 

Page  56,  No.  LXII.,  line  9.  Osiris,  the  Egyptian  god  of  Agriculture  (here,  per- 
haps by  confusion  with  Apis,  figured  as  a  bull),  was  torn  to  pieces  by  Typho 
and  embalmed  after  death  in  a  sacred  chest.  This  mythe,  reproduced  in  Syria 
and  Greece  in  the  legends  of  Thammuz,  Adonis,  and  perhaps  Absyrtus,  may 
have  originally  signified  the  annual  death  of  the  Sun  or  the  Year  under  th« 
influences  of  the  winter  darkness.  Horus,  the  son  of  Osiris,  as  the  New  Year, 
in  his  turn  overcomes  Typho.  Line  11.  unshower'd  grass:  as  watered  by  the 
Nile  only.      Line  36.  youngest-teemed :  last-born. 

Page  57,  No.  LXII.,  line  4.    Bright-harness' d  :  armoured. 

Page  59,  No.  LXIV.  The  Late  Massacre  :  the  Vaudois  persecution,  carried 
en  in  1655  by  the  Duke  of  Savoy.  This  '  collect  in  verse,'  as  it  has  been  justly 
named,  is  the  most  mighty  Sonnet  in  any  language  known  to  the  Editor. 
Readers  should  observe  that  it  is  constructed  on  the  original  Italian  or  Pro- 
vencal model.  This  form,  in  a  language  such  as  ours,  not  affluent  in  rhyme, 
presents  great  difficulties ;  the  rhymes  are  apt  to  be  forced,  or  the  substance 
commonplace.  But,  when  successfully  handled,  it  has  a  unity  and  a  beauty  of 
effect  which  place  the  strict  Sonnet  above  the  less  compact  and  less  lyrical  sys- 
tems adopted  by  Shakespeare,  Sidney,  Spenser,  and  other  Elizabethan  poets. 

Page  59,  No.  LXV,    Cromwell  returned  from  Ireland  in  1650,  and  Marvel! 


#4  NOTES. 

probably  wrote  his  lines  soon  after,  whilst  living  at  Nunappleton  in  the  Fairfax 
household.  It  is  hence  not  surprising  that  (stanzas  21-24)  he  should  have 
been  deceived  by  Cromwell's  professed  submissiveness  to  the  Parliament  which, 
when  it  declined  to  register  his  decrees,  he  expelled  by  armed  violence :  —  one 
despotism,  by  natural  law,  replacing  another.  The  poet's  insight  has,  however, 
truly  prophesied  that  result  in  his  last  two  lines. 

This  Ode,  beyond  doubt  one  of  the  finest  in  our  language,  and  more  in  Mil- 
ton's style  than  has  been  reached  by  any  other  poet,  is  occasionally  obscure 
from  imitation  of  the  condensed  Latin  syntax.  The  meaning  of  stanza  5  is 
1  rivalry  or  hostility  are  the  same  to  a  lofty  spirit,  and  limitation  more  hateful 
than  opposition.'  The  allusion  in  stanza  11  is  to  the  old  physical  doctrines  of 
the  nonexistence  of  a  vacuum  and  the  impenetrability  of  matter: — in  stanza 
17  to  the  omen  traditionally  connected  with  the  foundation  of  the  Capitol  at 
Rome.  The  ancient  belief  that  certain  years  in  life  complete  natural  periods 
and  are  hence  peculiarly  exposed  to  death,  is  introduced  in  stanza  26  by  the 
word  climacteric. 

Lycidas.  The  person  lamented  is  Milton's  college  contemporary  Edward 
King,  drowned  in  1637  whilst  crossing  from  Chester  to  Ireland. 

Strict  Pastoral  Poetry  was  first  written  or  perfected  by  the.  Dorian  Greeks 
settled  in  Sicily :  but  the  conventional  use  of  it,  exhibited  more  magnificently  in 
Lycidas  than  in  any  other  pastoral,  is  apparently  of  Roman  origin.  Milton, 
employing  the  noble  freedom  of  a  great  artist,  has  here  united  ancient  my- 
thology, with  what  may  be  called  the  modern  mythology  of  Camus  and  Saint 
Peter,  —  to  direct  Christian  images.  Yet  the  poem,  if  it  gains  in  historical 
interest,  suffers  in  poetry  by  the  harsh  intrusion  of  the  writer's  narrow  and  vio- 
lent theological  politics.  —  The  metrical  structure  of  this  glorious  elegy  is  partly 
derived  from  Italian  models. 

Page  63,  No.  LXVI.,  line  19.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well :  the  Muses,  said  to 
frequent  the  Pierian  Spring  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Olympus. 

Page  64,  No.  LXVI.,  line  26.  Mona :  Anglesea,  called  by  the  Welsh  poets 
Ynys  Dywell,  or  the  Dark  Island,  from  its  dense  forests.  Deva  (line  27)  the 
Dee :  a  river  which  may  have  derived  its  magical  character  from  Celtic  tradi- 
tions :  it  was  long  the  boundary  of  Briton  and  English.  —  These  places  are 
introduced,  as  being  near  the  scene  of  the  shipwreck.  Orpheus  (line  30)  was 
torn  to  pieces  by  Thracian  women. 

Page  65,  No.  LXVI.  Amaryllis  and  Neaera  (lines  3,  4)  names  used  here  for 
the  love-idols  of  poets :  as  Damoetas  previously  for  a  shepherd.  Line  10.  the 
blind  Fury :  Atropos,  fabled  to  cut  the  thread  of  life.  Arethuse  (line  20) 
and  Mincius  :  Sicilian  and  Italian  waters  here  alluded  to  as  synonymous  with 
the  pastoral  poetry  of  Theocritus  and  Vergil.  Line  23.  oat:  pipe,  used  here 
like  Collins'  oaten  stop,  line  1,  No.  CXLVI.,  for  Song.  Line  31.  Hippotades: 
Aeolus,  god  of  the  winds.  Panope  (line  34)  a  Nereid.  Certain  names  of  local 
deities  in  the  Hellenic  mythology  render  some  feature  in  the  natural  landscape, 
which  the  Greeks  studied  and  analysed  with  their  usual  unequalled  insight  and 
feeling.  Panope  seems  to  express  the  boundlessness  of  the  ocean-horizon  when 
seen  from  a  height,  as  compared  with  the  limited  horizon  of  the  land  in  hilly 
countries  such  as  Greece  or  Asia  Minor. 

Page  66,  No  LXVI.,  line  1.  Camus:  the  Cam;  put  for  King's  University. 
The  sanguine  flower  (line  4)  the  Hyacinth  of  the  ancients;  probably  our  Iris. 


NOTES.  335 

The  pilot  (line  7)  Saint  Peter,  figuratively  introduced  as  the  head  of  the  Church 
on  earth,  to  foretell  'the  ruin  of  our  corrupted  clergy,'  as  Milton  regarded 
them,  'then  in  their  height'  under  Laud's  primacy.  Line  22.  scrannel: 
screeching;  apparently  Milton's  coinage  (Masson).  Line  26.  the  wolf:  the 
Puritans  of  the  time  were  excited  to  alarm  and  persecution  by  a  few  conver- 
sions to  Roman  Catholicism  which  had  recently  occurred.  Alpheus  (line  30) 
a  stream  in  Southern  Greece,  supposed  to  flow  under  seas  to  join  the  Arethuse. 
Sioart  star  (line  36) :  the  Dogstar,  called  swarthy  because  its  heliacal  rising  in 
ancient  times  occurred  soon  after  midsummer. 

Page  67,  No.  LXVI.,  line  2.  rathe :  early.  Line  19.  moist  vows :  either  tearful 
prayers,  or  prayers  for  one  at  sea.  Bellerus  (line  20)  a  giant,  apparently  created 
here  by  Milton  to  personify  Belerium,  the  ancient  title  of  the  Land's  End.  The 
great  Vision  :  —  the  story  was  that  the  Archangel  Michael  had  appeared  on  the 
rock  by  Marazion  in  Mount's  Bay  which  bears  his  name.  Milton  calls  on  him 
to  turn  his  eyes  from  the  south  homeward,  and  to  pity  Lycidas,  if  his  body  has 
drifted  into  the  troubled  waters  off  the  Land's  End.  Finisterre  being  the  land 
due  south  of  Marazion,  two  places  in  that  district  (then  through  our  trade  with 
Corunna  probably  less  unfamiliar  to  English  ears),  are  named,  —  Namancos 
now  Mujio  in  Galicia,  Dayona  north  of  the  Minho,  or  perhaps  a  fortified  rock 
(one  of  the  Cies  islands)  not  unlike  Saint  Michael's  Mount,  at  the  entrance  of 
Vigo  Bay.     Line  30.  ore  :  rays  of  golden  light. 

Page  68,  No.  LXVI.,  line  11.  Doric  lay  :  Sicilian,  pastoral. 

Page  70,  No.  LXX.  The  assault  was  an  attack  on  London  expected  in  1642, 
when  the  troops  of  Charles  I.  reached  Brentford.  'Written  on  his  door*  was 
in  the  original  title  of  this  sonnet.     Milton  was  then  living  in  Aldersgate  Street. 

Line  20.  The  Emathian  Conqueror  :  When  Thebes  was  destroyed  (B.C.  335) 
and  the  citizens  massacred  by  thousands,  Alexander  ordered  the  house  of  Pin- 
dar to  be  spared.  Line  23.  the  repeated  air  Of  sad  Electro. 's  poet :  Plutarch  has 
a  tale  that  when  the  Spartan  confederacy  in  404  B.C.  took  Athens,  a  proposal  to 
demolish  it  was  rejected  through  the  effect  produced  on  the  commanders  by 
hearing  part  of  a  chorus  from  the  Electra  of  Euripides  sung  at  a  feast.  There 
is  however  no  apparent  congruity  between  the  lines  quoted  (167,  168  Ed.  Din- 
dorf)  and  the  result  ascribed  to  them. 

Page  72,  No.  LXXIII.  This  high-toned  and  lovely  Madrigal  is  quite  in  the 
style,  and  worthy  of,  the  'pure  Simonides.' 

Page  73,  No.  LXXV.  These  beautiful  verses  should  be  compared  with 
Wordsworth's  great  Ode,  No.  cclxxxvii.  —  In  imaginative  intensity,  Vaughan 
stands  beside  his  contemporary  Marvell:  —  See  Nos.  CXI.  and  CCXCIV. 

Page  74,  No.  LXXVI.   Favonius  :  the  spring  wind. 

Page  74,  No.  LXXVII.  Themis :  the  goddess  of  justice.  Skinner  was  grand- 
son by  his  mother  to  Sir  E.  Coke ;  —  hence,  as  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Keightley, 
Milton's  allusion  to  the  bench.  Line  26.  Sweden  was  then  at  war  with  Poland, 
and  France  with  the  Spanish  Netherlands. 

Page  76,  No.  LXXix.,  line  22.  Sydenian  showers:  either  in  allusion  to  the 
conversations  in  the  '  Arcadia,'  or  to  Sidney  himself  as  a  model  of  'gentleness  ' 
in  spirit  and  demeanour. 

Page  80,  No.  lxxxiv.  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia  :  Daughter  to  James  I.,  and 
ancestor  to  Sophia  of  Hanover.  These  lines  are  a  fine  specimen  of  gallant 
and  courtly  compliment. 


336  NO  TEH. 

Page  81,  No.  LXXXV.  Lady  M.  Ley  was  daughter  to  Sir  J.  Ley,  afterwan 
Earl  of  Marlborough,  who  died  March,  1629,  coincidently  with  the  dissolutic 
of  the  third  Parliament  of  Charles'  reign.  Hence  Milton  poetically  compan 
his  death  to  that  of  the  Orator  Isocrates  of  Athens,  after  Philip's  victory  in  3: 
B.C. 

Page  81,  No.  LXXXVI.  Archbishop  Trench  has  kindly  informed  the  Edit* 
that  this  graceful  poem  is  an  imitation  of  early  style  by  G.  Darley:  publish* 
cir.  1847. 

Page  88,  No.  XCIX.  From  Prison  :  to  which  his  active  support  of  Charles 
twice  brought  the  high-spirited  writer. 

Page  89,  No.  XCIX.,  line  1.  Gods:  thus  in  the  original;  Lovelace,  in  h 
fanciful  way,  making  here  a  mythological  allusion.  Birds,  commonly  subs 
tuted,  is  without  authority. 

Page  93,  No.  cv.  Inserted  in  Book  II.  as  written  in  the  character  of  a  Sc 
dier  of  Fortune  in  the  Seventeenth  Century. 

Page  94,  No.  CVI.  Walywaly :  an  exclamation  of  sorrow,  the  root  and  tl 
pronunciation  of  which  are  preserved  in  the  word  caterwaul.  Brae,  hillsidi 
burn,  brook  :  busk,  adorn.  Saint  Antoris  Well:  at  the  foot  of  Arthur's  Seat  1 
Edinburgh.     Cramasie,  crimson. 

Page  95,  No.  CVI  I.  burd,  maiden. 

Page  96,  No.  CVIII.  corbies,  crows:  fail,  turf:  hause,  neck:  theek,  thatch.- 
If  not  in  their  origin,  in  their  present  form  this  and  the  two  preceding  poer 
appear  due  to  the  Seventeenth  Century,  and  have  therefore  been  placed 
Book  II. 

Page  98,  No.  CXI.  The  remark  quoted  in  the  note  to  No.  xlvii.  appli 
equally  to  these  truly  wonderful  verses,  which,  like  '  Lycidas,'  may  be  regard) 
as  a  test  of  any  reader's  insight  into  the  most  poetical  aspects  of  Poetry.  Tl 
general  differences  between  them  are  vast :  but  in  imaginative  intensity  Ms 
veil  and  Shelley  are  closely  related.  —  This  poem  is  printed  as  a  translation 
Marvell's  works :  but  the  original  Latin  is  obviously  his  own.  The  most  stri 
ing  verses  in  it,  here  quoted  as  the  book  is  rare,  answer  more  or  less  to  stanz. 

*  and  6 :  — 

Alma  Quies,  teneo  te!  et  te,  germana  Quietis, 
Simplicitas !  vos  ergo  diu  per  templa,  per  urbes 
Quaesivi,  regum  perque  aha  palatia,  frustra: 
Sed  vos  hortorum  per  opaca  silentia,  longe 
Celarunt  plantae  virides,  et  concolor  umbra. 

LAlligro  and  //  Penseroso.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of  Milton's  astonishii 
power,  that  these,  the  earliest  pure  Descriptive  Lyrics  in  our  language,  shou 
still  remain  the  best  in  a  style  which  so  many  great  poets  have  since  1 
tempted.  The  Bright  and  the  Thoughtful  aspects  of  Nature  and  of  Life  a 
their  subjects :  but  each  is  preceded  by  a  mythological  introduction  in  a  mix< 
Classical  and  Italian  manner.  —  With  that  of  LAlligro  may  be  compared 
similar  mythe  in  the  first  Section  of  the  first  Book  of  S.  Marmion's  grace! 
Cupid  and  Psyche,  1637. 

Page  101,  No.  CXII.,  line  32.  the  mountain  nymph;  compare  Wordswortt 
Sonnet,  No.  CCX.  Line  20  (page  102)  is  in  apposition  to  the  preceding,  by 
syntactical  license  not  uncommon  with  Milton. 

Page  102,  No.  CXII.,  line  38.    Cynosure  :  the  Pole  Star. 


NOTES.  337 

Page  103,  No.  CXII.,  line  3.  Corydon,  Tkyrsis,  etc. :  Shepherd  names  from  the 
old  Idylls.    Rebeck  (line  14)  an  elementary  form  of  violin. 

Page  104,  No.  CXII.,  line  14.  Jonson's  learned  sock  :  His  somewhat  pedantic 
comedies  exhibit  one  of  the  less  fortunate  results  of  the  Renaissance  movement. 
£,ine  28.  Lydian  airs  :  used  here  to  express  a  light  and  festive  style  of  ancient 
music.  The  '  Lydian  Mode,"  one  of  the  seven  original  Greek  Scales,  is  nearly 
identical  with  our  '  Major.' 

Page  105,  No.  CXIII.,  line  3.  bestead:  avail.  Line  19.  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  : 
Cassiopeia,  the  legendary  Queen  of  Ethiopia,  and  thence  translated  amongst 
the  constellations. 

Page  106,  No.  CXIII..  line  24.  Cynthia:  the  Moon:  Milton  seems  here  to 
have  transferred  to  her  chariot  the  dragons  anciently  assigned  to  Demeter  and 
to  Media. 

Page  107,  No.  CXIII.,  line  15.  Hermes,  called  Trismegistus,  a  mystical  writer 
of  the  Noo-Platonist  school.  Line  26.  Thebes,  etc. :  subjects  of  Athenian  Trag- 
edy. Bu*kin'd  (line  29)  tragic,  in  opposition  to  sock  above.  Line  31.  Mu- 
saeus :  a  pcet  in  mythology.  Line  36.  him  that  left  half-told:  Chaucer,  in  his 
incomplete  '  .Squire's  Tale.' 

Page  108,  No.  CXIII.,  line  5.  great  bards:  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  Spenser,  are 
here  intended.    Line  12.  frounced :  curled.    The  Attic  Boy  (line  13)  Cephalus. 

Page  109,  No.  v'XIV.  Emigrants  supposed  to  be  driven  towards  America  by 
the  government  of  Charles  I. 

Page  no.  No.  CXI  v.,  lines  17,  18.  But  apples,  etc.  A  fine  example  of  Mar- 
veil's  imaginative  hyberbole. 

Page  in,  No.  CXV.,  line  6.  concent :  harmony. 

Summary  of  Book  Third. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  characterize  the  English  Poetry  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury than  that  of  any  other.  For  it  was  an  age  not  only  of  spontaneous  transi- 
tion, but  of  bold  experiment:  it  includes  not  only  such  divergences  of  thought 
as  distinguish  the  '  Rape  of  the  Lock '  from  the  '  Parish  Register,'  but  such  vast 
contemporaneous  differences  as  lie  between  Pope  and  Collins,  Burns  and 
Cowper.  Yet  we  may  clearly  trace  three  leading  moods  or  tendencies  :  —  the 
aspects  of  courtly  or  educated  life  represented  by  Pope  and  carried  to  exhaus- 
tion by  his  followers ;  the  poetry  of  Nature  and  of  Man,  viewed  through  a  culti- 
vated, and  at  the  same  time  an  impassioned  frame  of  mind  by  Collins  and 
Gray:  —  lastly,  the  study  of  vivid  and  simple  narrative,  including  natural 
description,  begun  by  Gay  and  Thomson,  pursued  by  Burns  and  others  in  the 
north,  and  established  in  England  by  Goldsmith,  Percy,  Crabbe,  and  Cowper. 
Great  varieties  in  style  accompanied  these  diversities  in  aim :  poets  could  not 
always  distinguish  the  manner  suitable  for  subjects  so  far  apart;  and  the  union 
of  conventional  and  of  common  language,  exhibited  most  conspicuously  by 
Burns,  has  given  a  tone  to  the  poetry  of  that  century  which  is  better  explained 
by  reference  to  its  historical  origin  than  by  naming  it  artificial.  There  is,  again, 
a  nobleness  of  thought,  a  courageous  aim  at  high  and,  in  a  strict  sense  manly, 
excellence  in  many  of  the  writers  :  — nor  can  that  period  be  justly  termed  tame 
and  wanting  in  originality,  which  produced  poems  such  as  Pope's  Satires,  Gray's 
Odes  and  Elegy,  the  baliads  of  Gay  and  Carey,  the  songs  of  Burns  and  Cowper 


338  NOTES. 

In  truth  Poetry  at  this,  as  at  all  times,  was  a  more  or  less  unconscious  mirroi 
of  the  genius  of  the  age :  and  the  reasoned  and  scientific  spirit  of  Enquiry 
which  made  the  Eighteenth  Century  the  turning-time  in  European  civilization  is 
reflected  faithfully  in  its  verse.  An  intelligent  reader  will  find  the  influence  of 
Newton  as  markedly  in  the  poems  of  Pope,  as  of  Elizabeth  in  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare.  On  this  great  subject,  however,  these  indications  must  here 
be  sufficient. 

The  Bard.  In  1757,  when  this  splendid  ode  was  completed,  so  very  little  had 
been  printed,  whether  in  Wales  or  in  England,  in  regard  to  Welsh  poetry,  that 
it  is  hard  to  discover  whence  Gray  drew  his  Cymric  allusions.  The  tabled 
massacre  of  the  Bards  (shown  to  be  wholly  groundless  in  Stephens'  Literature 
of  the  Kymry)  appears  first  in  the  family  history  of  Sir  John  Wynn  of  Gwydir 
(cir.  1600),  not  published  till  1773 ;  but  the  story  seems  to  have  passed  in  MS. 
to  Carte's  History,  whence  it  may  have  been  taken  by  Gray.  The  references  to 
high-born  Hoel  and  soft  Llewellyn  (line  28)  ;  to  Cadwallo  and  Urien  (lines  29, 
30),  may,  similarly,  have  been  derived  from  the  '  Specimens '  of  early  Welsh 
poetry,  by  the  Rev.  E.  Evans  :  —  as,  although  not  published  till  1764,  the  MS., 
we  learn  from  a  letter  to  Dr.  Wharton,  was  in  Gray's  hands  by  July  1760,  and 
may  have  reached  him  by  1757,  the  date  when  he  first  received  Macpherson's 
earliest  specimens  of  Gaelic  poetry,  which  he  criticizes,  with  Evans'  extracts  in 
the  above-noticed  letter.  Yet  even  then  it  is  doubtful  whether  Gray  (of  whose 
acquaintance  with  Welsh  we  have  no  evidence),  must  not  have  been  aided  by 
some  Welsh  scholar.  He  is  one  of  the  poets  least  likely  to  scatter  epithets  at 
random :  '  soft '  or  gentle  is  the  epithet  emphatically  and  specially  given  to 
Llewelyn  in  contemporary  Welsh  poetry,  and  is  hence  here  used  with  particular 
propriety.  Yet,  without  such  assistance  as  we  have  suggested,  Gray  could 
hardly  have  selected  the  epithet,  although  applied  to  the  King  (page  141-3) 
among  a  crowd  of  others,  in  Llygad  Gwr's  Ode,  printed  by  Evans.  —  After 
lamenting  his  comrades  (stanzas  2,  3)  the  Bard  prophesies  the  fate  of  Edward 
II.  and  tLi  conquests  of  Edward  III.  (4):  his  death  and  that  of  the  Black 
Prince  (5)  :  of  Richard  II.,  with  the  Wars  of  York  and  Lancaster,  the  murder 
of  Henry  VI.,  {the  meek  usurper,)  and  of  Edward  V.  and  his  brother  (6).  He 
turns  to  the  glory  and  prosperity  following  the  accession  of  the  Tudors  (7), 
through  Elizabeth's  reign  (8):  and  concludes  with  a  vision  of  the  poetry  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton. 

Page  122,  No.  CXXIII.,  line  16.  Glo'ster:  Gilbert  de  Clare,  son-in-law  to 
Edward.  Mortimer,  one  of  the  Lords  Marchers  of  Wales.  High-born  Hoelt 
soft  Llewellyn  (line  31)  ;  the  Dissertatio  de  Bardis  of  Evans  names  the  first  as 
son  to  the  King  Owain  Gwynedd  :  — Llewelyn,  last  King  of  North  Wales,  was 
murdered  1282.  Line  32.  Cadwallo  :  Cadwallon  (died  631)  and  Urien  Reged 
(early  kings  of  Gwynedd  and  Cumbria  respectively)  are  mentioned  by  Evans 
(page  78)  as  bards  none  of  whose  poetry  is  extant. 

Page  123,  No.  CXXIII.,  line  3.  Modred :  Evans  supplies  no  data  for  this  name, 
which  Gray  (it  has  been  supposed)  uses  for  Merlin  (Myrddin  Wyllt),  held 
prophet  as  well  as  poet,  to  whom  is  reasonably  ascribed  the  beautiful  Afallenau 
Ode,  as  given  in  the  '  Black  Book  of  Caermarthen  '  (Skene).  Line  5.  Arvon  : 
the  shores  of  Carnarvonshire  opposite  Anglesey.  Whether  intentionally  or 
tnrough  ignorance  of  the  real  dates,  Gray  here  represents  the  Bard  as  speaking 


NOTES.  339 

of  these  poets,  all  of  earlier  days,  Llewelyn  excepted,  as  his  own  contemporaries 
at  the  close  of  the  Thirteenth  Century. 

Gray,  whose  penetrating  and  powerful  genius  rendered  him  in  many  ways  an 
initiator  in  advance  of  his  age,  is  probably  the  first  of  our  poets  who  made  some 
acquaintance  with  the  rich  and  admirable  poetry  in  which  Wales  from  the  Sixth 
Century  has  been  fertile,  — before  and  since  his  time  so  barbarously  neglected, 
not  in  England  only.  Hence  it  has  been  thought  worth  while  here  to  enter  into 
a  little  detail  upon  his  Cymric  allusions. 

Line  27.    She-wolf:  Isabel  of  France,  adulterous  Queen  of  Edward  II. 

Page  124,  No.  cxxni.,  line  20.  Towers  of  Julius :  the  Tower  of  London, 
built  in  part,  according  to  tradition,  by  Julius  Caesar.  Line  26.  bristled  boar : 
the  badge  of  Richard  III.  Line  32.  Half  of  thy  heart :  Queen  Eleanor  died 
soon  after  the  conquest  of  Wales. 

Page  125,  No.  CXXIII.,  line  5.  Arthur:  Henry  VII.  named  his  eldest  son 
thus,  in  deference  to  British  feeling  and  legend. 

Page  126,  No.  cxxv.  The  Highlanders  called  the  battle  of  Culloden, 
Drumossie. 

Page  127,  No.  CXXVI.  lilting,  singing  blithely :  loaning,  broad  lane :  bughts, 
pens  :  scorning,  rallying:  dowie,  dreary  :  daffin'  and gabbin',  joking  and  chatting: 
legliu,  milkpail :  shearing,  reaping:  bandsters,  sheaf-binders :  lyart,  grizzled: 
runkled,  wrinkled:  Jleeching,  coaxing:  gloaming,  twilight:  bogle,  ghost:  dool, 
sorrow. 

Page  129,  No.  CXXVIII.  The  Editor  has  found  no  authoritative  text  of  this 
poem,  in  his  judgment  superior  to  any  other  of  its  class  in  melody  and  pathos. 
Part  is  probably  not  later  than  the  Seventeeth  Century :  in  other  stanzas  a  more 
modern  hand,  much  resembling  Scott's,  is  traceable.  Logan  s  poem  (cxxvu.) 
exhibits  a  knowledge  rather  of  the  old  legend  than  of  the  old  verses.  —  Hecht, 
promised:  the  obsolete  hight :  mavis,  thrush  :  ilha,every:  lav'rock,  lark :  haughs, 
valley-meadows:  twined,  parted  from :  marrow,  mate  :  syne,  then. 

Page  130,  No.  CXXIX.  The  Royal  George,  of  108  guns,  whilst  undergoing  a 
partial  careening  in  Portsmouth  Harbour,  was  overset  about  10  A.M.  Aug.  29, 
1782.  The  total  loss  was  believed  to  be  nearly  1000  souls.  —  This,  again,  might 
be  called  one  of  our  trial-pieces,  in  regard  to  taste.  The  reader  who  feels  the 
vigour  of  description  and  the  force  of  pathos  underlying  Cowper's  bare  and 
truly  Greek  simplicity  of  phrase,  may  assure  himself  se  valde  profecisse  in  poetry. 

Page  133,  No.  cxxxi.  A  little  masterpiece  in  a  very  difficult  style:  Catullus 
himself  could  hardly  have  bettered  it.  In  grace,  tenderness,  simplicity  and 
humour  it  is  worthy  of  the  Ancients;  and  even  more  so,  from  the  completeness 
and  unity  of  the  picture  presented. 

Page  137,  cxxxvi.  Perhaps  no  writer  who  has  given  such  strong  proofs  of 
the  poetic  nature  has  left  less  satisfactory  poetry  than  Thomson.  Yet  he 
touched  little  which  he  did  not  beautify ;  and  this  song,  with  '  Rule  Britannia ' 
and  a  few  others,  must  make  us  regret  that  he  did  not  more  seriously  apply 
himself  to  lyrical  writing. 

Page  139,  No.  CXL.,  line  1.  Aeolian  lyre  :  the  Greeks  ascribed  the  origin  of 
their  Lyrical  Poetry  to  the  Colonies  of  Aeolis  in  Asia  Minor.  Thracia's  hills 
(line  17)  supposed  a  favourite  resort  of  Mars.  Feather'd  king  (line  21)  the 
Eagle  of  Jupiter,  admirably  described  by  Pindar  in  a  passage  here  imitated 
by  Gray.  Idalia  (line  27)  in  Cyprus,  where  Cytherea  (Venus)  was  especially 
ivorshipped. 


340  NOTES. 

Page  140,  cxx.,  line  20.  Hyperion :  the  Sun.  Stanzas  6-8  allude  to  Poets  ot 
the  Islands  and  Mainland  of  Greece,  to  those  of  Rome  and  of  England. 

Page  142,  No.  CXL.,  line  9.     Theban  Eagle  :  Pindar. 

Page  144,  No.  CXLI.,  line  23.    chaste-eyed  Queen  :  Diana. 

Page  146,  No.  CXLII.  Attic  warbler  :  the  nightingale. 

Page  148,  No.  CXLIV.  sleekit,  sleek:  bickering  brattle,  flittering  flight:  laiih, 
loth  :  pattle,  ploughstaff :  whyles,  at  times:  a  daimen  icker,  a  corn-ear  now  and 
then  :  thrave,  shock :  lave,  rest:  foggage,  aftergrass :  snell,  biting:  but  hald,  with- 
out dwelling-place :  thole,  bear:  cranreuch,  hoarfrost:  thy  lane,  alone:  a-gley, 
off  the  right  line,  awry. 

Page  151,  No.  CXLVII.   Perhaps  the  noblest  stanzas  in  our  language. 

Page  155,  No.  CXLVIII.  stoure,  dust-storm:  braw,  smart. 

Page  156,  No.  CXLIX.  scaith,  hurt:  tent,  guard:  steer,  molest. 

Page  157,  No.  CLI.  drumlie,  muddy :  birk,  birch. 

Page  159,  No.  CLII.  greet,  cry:  daurna,  dare  not.— -There  can  hardly  exist  t 
poem  more  truly  tragic  in  the  highest  sense  than  this :  nor,  except  Sappho,  has 
any  Poetess  known  to  the  Editor  equalled  it  in  excellence. 

Page  159,  No.  CLIII.  fou,  merry  with  drink:  coos/,  carried:  unco  skeigh,  very 
proud:  gart,  forced:  abeigh,  aside:  Ailsa  craig,  a  rock  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde: 
grat  his  een  bleert,  cried  till  his  eyes  were  bleared:  lowpin,  leaping:  linn,  water- 
fall :  sair,  sore :  stnoor'd,  smothered :  crouse  and  canty,  blythe  and  gay. 

Page  160,  No.  CLIV.  Burns  justly  named  this  'one  of  the  most  beautiful 
songs  in  the  Scots  or  any  other  language.'  One  verse,  interpolated  by  Beattie, 
is  here  omitted  :  — it  contains  two  good  lines,  but  is  quite  out  of  harmony  with 
the  original  poem.  Bigonet,  little  cap ;  probably  altered  from  beguinette  :  thraic, 
twist :  caller,  fresh. 

Page  162,  No.  CLV.  airts,  quarters :  row,  roll:  shaw,  small  wood  in  a  hollow, 
spinney :  knowes,  knolls. 

Page  163,  No.  CLVI.  jo,  sweetheart:  brent,  smooth;  pow,  head. 

Page  163.  No.  CLVII.  leal,  faithful:  fain,  happy. 

Page  164,  No.  CLVin.   Henry  VI.  founded  Eton. 

Page  170,  No.  CLXI.  The  Editor  knows  no  Sonnet  more  remarkable  than 
this,  which,  with  CLXII.,  records  Cowper's  gratitude  to  the  Lady  whose  affec- 
tionate care  for  many  years  gave  what  sweetness  he  could  enjoy  to  a  life  radi- 
cally wretched.  Petrarch's  sonnets  have  a  more  ethereal  grace  and  a  more 
perfect  finish ;  Shakespeare's  more  passion ;  Milton's  stand  supreme  in  stateli- 
ness;  Wordsworth's  in  depth  and  delicacy.  But  Cowper's  unites  with  an 
exquisiteness  in  the  turn  of  thought  which  the  ancients  would  have  called 
Irony,  an  intensity  of  pathetic  tenderness  peculiar  to  his  loving  and  ingenuous 
nature.  —  There  is  much  mannerism,  much  that  is  unimportant  or  of  now 
exhausted  interest  in  his  poems:  but  where  he  is  great,  it  is  with  that  elemen- 
tary greatness  which  rests  on  the  most  universal  human  feelings.  Cowper  is 
our  highest  master  in  simple  pathos. 

Page  172,  No.  CLXIII.  fancied  green :  cherished  garden. 

Page  172,  No.  CLXiv.  Very  little  except  his  surname  appears  recoverable 
with  regard  to  the  author  of  this  truly  noble  poem,  which  appeared  in  the 
'  Scripscrapologia,  or  Collins'  Doggerel  Dish  of  All  Sorts,'  with  three  or  four 
other  pieces  of  merit.  Birmingham,  1804.  It  should  be  noted  as  exhibiting  a 
rare  excellence,  —  the  climax  of  simple  sublimity. 


JVOT£S.  341 

It  is  a  lesson  of  great  instructiveness  to  examine  the  essential  qualities  which 
give  high  poetical  rank  to  lyrics  such  as  '  To-morrow '  or  '  Sally  in  our  Alley,' 
when  compared  with  poems  written  (if  the  phrase  may  be  allowed)  in  keys  so 
different  as  the.subtle  sweetness  of  Shelley,  the  grandeur  of  Gray  and  Milton,, 
or  the  delightful  Pastoralism  of  the  Elizabethan  verse.  Intelligent  readers  will 
gain  hence  a  clear  understanding  of  the  vast  imaginative  range  of  Poetry ;  — ■ 
through  what  wide  oscillations  the  mind  and  the  taste  of  a  nation  may  pass ;  — 
how  many  are  the  roads  which  Truth  and  Nature  open  to  Excellence. 

Summary  of  Book  Fourth. 

It  proves  sufficiently  the  lavish  wealth  of  our  own  age  in  Poetry,  that  the 
pieces  which,  without  conscious  departure  from  the  standard  of  Excellence,  ren- 
der this  Book  by  far  the  longest,  were  with  very  few  exceptions  composed  during 
the  first  thirty  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Exhaustive  reasons  can  hardly 
be  given  for  the  strangely  sudden  appearance  of  individual  genius  :  that,  how- 
ever, which  assigns  the  splendid  national  achievements  of  our  recent  poetry  to 
an  impulse  from  the  France  of  the  first  Republic  and  Empire  appears  to  the 
Editor  inadequate.  The  first  French  Revolution  was  rather,  in  his  opinion,  one 
result,  and  in  itself  far  from  the  most  important,  of  that  wider  and  more  potent 
spirit  which  through  enquiry  and  attempt,  through  strength  and  weakness, 
sweeps  mankind  round  the  circles  (not,  as  some  fondly  dream,  of  Advance, 
but)  of  gradual  Transformation :  and  it  is  to  this  that  we  must  trace  the  litera- 
ture of  modern  Europe.  But,  without  more  detailed  discussion  on  the  motive 
causes  of  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Campbell,  Keats,  and  Shelley,  we  may  observe 
that  these  Poets,  with  others,  carried  to  further  perfection  the  later  tendencies 
of  the  Century  preceding,  in  simplicity  of  narrative,  reverence  for  human  Pas- 
sion and  Character  in  every  sphere,  and  impassioned  love  of  Nature: — that, 
whilst  maintaining  on  the  whole  the  advances  in  art  made  since  the  Restora- 
tion, they  renewed  the  half-forgotten  melody  and  depth  of  tone  which  marked 
the  best  Elizabethan  writers :  —  that,  lastly,  to  what  was  thus  inherited  they 
added  a  richness  in  language  and  a  variety  in  metre,  a  force  and  fire  in  narra- 
tive, a  tenderness  and  bloom  in  feeling,  an  insight  into  the  finer  passages  of  the 
Soul  and  the  inner  meanings  of  the  landscape,  a  larger  and  wiser  Humanity, — 
hitherto  hardly  attained,  and  perhaps  unattainable  even  by  predecessors  of  not 
inferior  individual  genius.  In  a  word,  the  Nation  which,  after  the  Greeks  in 
their  glory,  has  been  the  most  gifted  of  all  nations  for  Poetry,  expressed  in 
these  men  the  highest  strength  and  prodigality  of  its  nature.  They  interpreted 
the  age  to  itself — hence  the  many  phases  of  thought  and  style  they  present:  — 
to  sympathize  with  each,  fervently  and  impartially,  without  fear  and  without 
fancifulness,  is  no  doubtful  step  in  the  higher  education  of  the  Soul.  For,  as 
with  the  Affections  and  the  Conscience,  Purity  in  Taste  is  absolutely  propor- 
tionate to  Strength:  —  and  when  once  the  mind  has  raised  itself  to  grasp  and 
to  delight  in  Excellence,  those  who  love  most  will  be  found  to  love  most  wisely, 

Page  175,  No.  CLXVI.  stout  Cortez:  History  requires  here  Balbda:  (A.  T.) 
It  may  be  noticed,  that  to  find  in  Chapman's  Homer  the  'pure  serene'  <£<£>* 
original,  the  reader  must  bring  with  him  the  imagination  of  the  youthful  poet; 
—  he  must  be  '  a  Greek  himself,'  as  Shelley  finely  said  of  Keats. 


342  NOTES. 

Page  179,  No.  CLXIX.  The  most  tender  and  true  of  Byron's  smaller  poems. 

Page  180,  No.  CLXX.  This  poem,  with  CCXXXVI.,  exemplifies  the  peculiar  skill 
with  which  Scott  employs  proper  names:  —  nor  is  there  a  surer  sign  of  high 
poetical  genius. 

Page  197,  No.  CXCI.  The  Editor  in  this  and  in  other  instances  has  risked  the 
addition  (or  the  change)  of  a  Title,  that  the  aim  of  the  verses  following  may  be 
grasped  more  clearly  and  immediately. 

Page  203,  No.  CXCVIII.  nature  s  Eremite  :  like  a  solitary  thing  in  Nature. — 
This  beautiful  Sonnet  was  the  last  word  of  a  poet  deserving  the  title '  marvellous 
boy*  in  a  much  higher  sense  than  Chatterton.  If  the  fulfilment  may  ever  safely 
be  prophesied  from  the  promise,  England  appears  to  have  lost  in  Keats  one 
whose  gifts  in  Poetry  have  rarely  been  surpassed.  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and 
Wordsworth,  had  their  lives  been  closed  at  twenty-five,  would  (so  far  as  we 
know)  have  left  poems  of  less  excellence  and  hope  than  the  youth  who,  from 
the  petty  school  and  the  London  surgery,  passed  at  once  to  a  place  with  them 
of '  high  collateral  glory.' 

Page  205,  No.  cci.  It  is  impossible  not  to  regret  that  Moore  has  written  so 
little  in  this  sweet  and  genuinely  national  style. 

Page  205,  No.  CCII.  A  masterly  example  of  Byron's  command  of  strong  thought 
and  close  reasoning  in  verse :  —  as  the  next  is  equally  characteristic  of  Shelley's 
wayward  intensity,  and  CCIV.  of  the  dramatic  power,  the  vital  identification  oi 
the  poet  with  other  times  and  characters,  in  which  Scott  is  second  only  to  Shake- 
speare. 

Page  215,  No.  ccix.  Bonnivard,  a  Genevese,  was  imprisoned  by  the  Duke 
of  Savoy  in  Chillon  on  the  lake  of  Geneva  for  his  courageous  defence  of  hi* 
country  against  the  tyranny  with  which  Piedmont  threatened  it  during  the  first 
half  of  the  Seventeenth  Century.  —  This  noble  Sonnet  is  worthy  to  stand  near 
Milton's  on  the  Vaudois  massacre. 

Page  215,  No.  CCX.  Switzerland  was  usurped  by  the  French  under  Napoleon 
in  1800:  Venice  in  1797  (CCXI.). 

Page  218,  No.  CCXV.  This  battle  was  fought  Dec.  2,  1800,  between  the  Aus* 
trians  under  Archduke  John  and  the  French  under  Moreau,  in  a  forest  neat 
Munich.    Hohen  Linden  means  High  Limetrees. 

Page  221,  No.  CCXVIII.  After  the  capture  of  Madrid  by  Napoleon,  Sir  J. 
Moore  retreated  before  Soult  and  Ney  to  Corunna,  and  was  killed  whilst  cover' 
wig  the  embarcation  of  his  troops.  His  tomb,  built  by  Ney,  bears  this  inscrip- 
tion—  'John  Moore,  leader  of  the  English  armies,  slain  in  battle,  1809.' 

Page  233,  No.  CCXXIX.  The  Mermaid  was  the  club-house  of  Shakespeare, 
Ben  Jonson,  and  other  choice  spirits  of  that  age. 

Page  234,  No.  CCXXX.  Maisie  :  Mary.  —  Scott  has  given  us  nothing  more 
complete  and  lovely  than  this  little  song,  which  unites  simplicity  and  dramatic 
power  to  a  wild-wood  music  of  the  rarest  quality.  No  moral  is  drawn,  far  less 
any  conscious  analysis  of  feeling  attempted:  —  the  pathetic  meaning  is  left  to  be 
suggested  by  the  mere  presentment  of  the  situation.  A  narrow  criticism  has 
often  named  this,  which  may  be  called  the  Homeric  manner,  superficial,  from 
its  apparent  simple  facility;  but  first  rate  excellence  in  it  (as  shown  here,  In 
CXCVI.,  CLVI.,  and  CXXIX.)  is  in  truth  one  of  the  least  common  triumphs  oi 
Poetry. —  This  style  should  be  compared  with  what  is  not  less  perfect  in  its  way, 
♦he  searching  out  of  inner  feeling,  the  expression  of  hidden  meanings,  the  ~evc 


NOTES.  343 

lation  of  the  heart  of  Nature  and  of  the  Soul  within  the  Soul,  —  the  analytical 
method,  in  short,  —  most  completely  represented  by  Wordsworth  and  by  Shel- 
ley. 

Page  240,  No.  CCXXXIV.   correi:  covert  on  a  hillside.     Cumber  :  trouble. 

Page  253,  CCXLIII.  This  poem  has  an  exaltation  and  a  glory,  joined  with  an 
exquisiteness  of  expression,  which  place  it  in  the  highest  rank  amongst  the 
many  masterpieces  of  its  illustrious  Author. 

Page  262,  No.  CCLII.   interlunar  swoon  :  interval  of  the  Moon's  invisibility. 

Page  268,  No.  CCLVI.  Calpe :  Gibraltar.  Lofoden  :  the  Maelstrom  whirlpool 
Dff  the  N.W.  coast  of  Norway. 

Page  269,  No.  CCLVII.  This  lovely  poem  refers  here  and  there  to  a  ballad  by 
Hamilton  on  the  subject  better  treated  in  CXXVII.  and  CXXVIII. 

Page  282,  No  CCLXVIII.  Arcturi  :  seemingly  used  for  northern  stars.  —  Ana 
wild  roses,  &c.  Our  language  has  no  line  modulated  with  more  subtle  sweet- 
ness. 

Page  285,  No.  CCLXX.  Ceres'  daughter  :   Proserpine.   God  of  Torment :  Pluto. 

Page  286,  No.  CCLXXI.  This  impassioned  address  expresses  Shelley's  most 
rapt  imaginations,  and  is  the  direct  modern  representative  of  the  feeling  which 
led  the  Greeks  to  the  worship  of  Nature. 

Page  295,  No.  CCLXXIV.  The  leading  idea  of  this  beautiful  description  of  a 
day's  landscape  in  Italy  appears  to  be,  —  On  the  voyage  of  life  are  many  mo- 
ments of  pleasure,  given  by  the  sight  of  Nature,  who  has  power  to  heal  even  the 
worldliness  and  the  uncharity  of  man. 

Page  296,  No.  CCLXXIV.,  line  36.  Amphitrite  was  daughter  to  Ocean. 

Page  301,  No.  CCLXXV.,  line  7.  Maenad:  a  frenzied  Nymph,  attendant  on 
Dionysos  in  the  Greek  ^nythology.  Line  25.  Plants  under  water  sympathize 
with  the  seasons  of  the  land,  and  hence  with  the  winds  which  affect  them. 

Page  302,  No.  cclxxvi.  Written  soon  after  the  death,  by  shipwreck,  of 
Wordsworth's  brother  John.  This  poem  should  be  compared  with  Shelley's 
following  it.  Each  is  the  most  complete  expression  of  the  innermost  spirit  of 
his  art  given  by  these  great  Poets:  —  of  that  Idea  which,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
true  Painter,  (to  quote  the  words  of  Reynolds,)  'subsists  only  in  the  mind: 
The  sight  never  beheld  it,  nor  has  the  hand  expressed  it  :  it  is  an  idea  residing 
in  the  breast  of  the  artist,  which  he  is  always  labouring  to  impart,  and  which  he 
dies  at  last  without  imparting.' 

Page  304,  No.  CCLXXVI.  the  Kind:  the  human  race. 

Page  305,  No.  CCLXXVIII.  Proteus  represented  the  everlasting  changes,  united 
with  ever-recurrent  sameness,  of  the  Sea. 

Page  305,  No.  CCLXXix.,  the  royal  Saint:  Henry  VI. 

Page  313,  No.  CCLXXXVII.  The  single  absolutely  first-rate  Ode  (among  Odes 
on  the  great  scale)  known  to  the  Editor  (for  Shelley's  Adonais  is  an  Elegy),  pro- 
duced in  this  century:  —  and,  like  Adonais,  the  poet's  greatest  achievement. 

Page  320,  No.  CCXC,  line  1.  prease :  press.  Sidney's  poetry  is  singularly 
unequal ;  his  short  life,  his  frequent  absorption  in  public  employment,  hindered 
doubtless  the  development  of  his  genius.  His  great  contemporary  fame,  second 
only,  it  appears,  to  Spenser's,  has  been  hence  obscured.  At  times  he  is  heavy 
and  even  prosaic;  his  simplicity  is  rude  and  bare;  his  verse  unmelodious. 
These,  however,  are  the  'defects  of  his  merits.'  In  a  certain  depth  and  chiv- 
alry of  feeling,  —  in  the  rare  and  noble  quality  of  disinterestedness  (to  put  it  in 


344  NOTES. 

one  word),  —  he  has  no  superior,  hardly  perhaps  an  equal,  amongst  our  Poets, 
and  after  or  beside  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  his  Astrophel  and  Stella,  in  the 
Editor's  judgment,  offers  the  most  intense  and  powerful  picture  of  the  passion 
of  love  in  the  whole  range  of  our  poetry. 

Page  320,  No.  CCXCI.  From  W.J.  Linton's  'Rare  Poems*  (1883):  a  selec- 
tion containing  many  pieces  which  deserve  the  epithet  for  their  beauty  not  less 
than  for  their  unfamiliarity.  This  gracious  lyric  appeared  in  one  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan song-books. 

Page  320,  No.  CCXCII.  With  better  taste,  and  less  diffuseness,  Quarles  might 
(one  would  think)  have  retained  more  of  that  high  place  which  he  held  in 
popular  estimate  among  his  contemporaries. 

Page  321,  No.  CCXCIII.  A  masterpiece  of  humour,  grace,  and  gentle  feeling, 
all,  with  Herrick's  unfailing  art,  kept  precisely  within  the  peculiar  key  which  he 
chose,  —  or  Nature  for  him,  —  in  his  Pastorals.  Line  18.  the  god  unshorn :  Im- 
berbis  Apollo. 

Page  322,  No.  CCXCIII.,  line  12.   beads  :  prayers. 

Page  323,  No.  ccxciv. :  see  note  on  lxxv. 

Page  322,  No.  CCXCV.  This  magnificent  song  occurs  in  the  long  poem  which 
Smart  is  reported  to  have  written  whilst  confined  as  a  madman. . 

Page  324,  No.  CCXCVI.  Burns  himself,  despite  two  attempts,  failed  to  improve 
this  little  absolute  masterpiece  of  music,  tenderness,  and  simplicity:  —  this  'Ro- 
mance of  a  life '  in  eight  lines.     It  has  a  rival  in  quality  in  CCXCIX. 

Page  324,  No.  CCXCVII.  Written  in  1773,  towards  the  beginning  of  Cowper's 
second  attack  of  melancholy  madness  —  a  time  when  he  altogether  gave  up 
prayer,  saying, '  For  him  to  implore  mercy  would  only  anger  God  the  more.' 
Yet,  had  he  given  it  up  when  sane,  it  would  have  been  '  major  insania.' 

Page  325,  No.  CCXCVIII.  Cowper's  last  original  poem,  founded  upon  a  story 
told  in  Anson's  '  Voyages.'    It  was  written  March,  1799 ;  he  died  April,  1800. 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS, 

WITH  DATES  OF  BIRTH  AND  DEATH. 

Alexander,  William  (1580— 1640)  xxn. 

Anon:  — ix,  xvn,  xl,  lxxx,  lxxxvi,  xci,  xciv,  xcvii,  cvi,  cvii,  cviii 
cxxviii,  ccxci,  ccxcvi. 

Bacon,  Francis  (1561  — 1626)  lvii. 

Barbauld,  Anna  Laetitia  (1743 — 1825)  CLXV. 

Barnefield,  Richard  (16th  Century)  xxxiv. 

Beaumont,  Francis  (1586 — 1616)  lxvii. 

Blake,  William  (1757  — 1827)  ccxcix. 

Burns,  Robert  (1759— 1796)  cxxv,  cxxxn,  cxxxix,  cxliv,  cxlviii,  cxlix, 

CL,  CLI,  CLIII,  CLV,  CLVI. 
Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel  (1788  —  1824)  clxix,  CLXXI,  clxxiii,  cxc,  CCII, 
ccix,  ccxxn,  ccxxxii. 

Campbell,  Thomas  (1777— 1844)  clxxxi,  clxxxiii,  clxxxvii,  cxcvii,ccvi 

CCVII,  CCXV,  CCLVI,  CCLXII,  CCLXVII,  CCLXXXIII. 
Carew,  Thomas  (1589— 1639)  Lxxxvu. 

Carey,  Henry  ( 1743)  cxxxi. 

ClBBER,  Colley  (1671— 1757)  CXIX. 

Coleridge,  Hartley  (1796  — 1849)  clxxv. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772  — 1834)  clxviii,  cclxxx. 

Collins,  William  (1720  — 1756)  cxxiv,  cxli,  cxlvi. 

Collins, (18th  Century)  clxiv. 

Constable,  Henry  (156- ?— 1604?)  xv. 

Cowley,  Abraham  (1618—  1667)  CH. 

COWPER,  William   (1731  —  1800)   CXXIX,  CXXXIV,  CXLIH,  CLX,  CLXI,  CLXi; 

CCXCVII,  CCXCVIII. 

Crashaw,  Richard  (1615  ?  — 1652)  LXXIX. 
Cunningham,  Allan  (1784— 1842)  ccv. 

Daniel,  Samuel  (1562  — 1619)  xxxv. 

Dekker,  Thomas  ( 1638  ?)  LIV. 

Drayton,  Michael  (1563—1631)  xxxvn. 

Drummond,  William  (1585-1649)  11,  xxxvm,  XLIII,  LV,  LVIII,  LIX,  LXI. 

Dryden,  John  (1631  — 1700)  lxiii,  cxvi. 

ELLIOTT,  Jane  (18th  Century)  CXXVI. 

Fletcher,  John  (1576— 1625)  civ. 


346  INDEX  OF  WRITERS, 

Gay,  John  (1688  — 1732)  cxxx. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver  (1728  — 1774)  cxxxvm. 

Graham, (1735  — 1797)  cxxxm. 

Gray,  Thomas  (1716  — 1771)  cxvn,  cxx,  cxxiii,  cxl,  cxlii,  cxlvii,  clvih 
clix. 

Herbert,  George  (1593  —  1632)  lxxiv. 

HERRICK,  Robert  (1591  —  1674?)  LXXXII,  LXXXVIII,  XCII,  XCIII,  xcvi,  cix, 
CX,  CCXCIII. 

Heywood,  Thomas  ( 1649?)  LI  I. 

Hood,  Thomas  (1798  — 1845)  ccxxiv,  ccxxxi,  cexxxv. 

Jonson,  Ben  (1574— 1637)  LXXIII,  LXXVIII,  xc. 

Keats,  John  (1795  — 1821)  clxvi,  clxvii,  cxci,  cxciii,  cxcviii,  cxcix, 

CCXXIX,  CCXLIV,  CCLV,  CCLXX,  CCLXXXIV. 

Lamb,  Charles  (1775— 1835)  ccxx,  ccxxxm,  ccxxxvii. 

Lindsay,  Anne  (1750  — 1825)  clii. 

Lodge,  Thomas  (1556— 1625)  xvi. 

Logan,  John  (1748  —  1788)  cxxvn. 

Lovelace,  Richard  (1618  — 1658)  lxxxiii,  xcix,  C. 

Lylye,  John  (1554— 1600)  li. 

Marlowe,  Christopher  (1562—  1593)  v. 

Marvell,  Andrew  (1620  — 1678)  LXV,  cxi,  CXIV. 

Mickle,  William  Julius  (1734— 1788)  CLiv. 

Milton,  John  (1608  — 1674)  lxii,  lxiv,  lxvi,  lxx,  lxxi,  lxxvi,  lxxvh, 

lxxxv,  cxi  1,  cxi  1 1,  cxv. 
Moore,  Thomas  (^780— 1852)  clxxxv,  cci,  ccxvii,  ccxxi,  ccxxv. 

Nairn,  Carolina  (1766  — 1845)  CLVII. 
Nash,  Thomas  (1567  — 1601  ?)  I. 

Philips.  Ambrose  (1671  — 1749)  cxxi. 
ForE,  Alexander  (1688  —  1744)  CXVIII. 
Prior,  Matthew  (1664— 1721)  cxxxvii. 

Quarles,  Francis  (1592  — 1644)  ccxciV. 

Rogers,  Samuel  (1762—  1855)  exxxv,  CXLV. 

Scott,  Walter  (1771  — 1832)  cv,  clxx,  clxxxii,  clxxxvi,  cxcii,  exciv, 

CXCVI,  CCIV,  CCXXX,  CCXXXIV,  CCXXXVI,  CCXXXIX,  CCLXIII. 

Sedley,  Charles  (1639  — 1701)  lxxxi,  xevm. 

Sewkll,  George  ( 1726)  CLXIII. 

Shakespeare,  William  (1564  — 1616)  in,  iv,  vi,  vn,  vin,  x,  xi,  xn,  xin,  xiv, 
XVIII,  XIX,  XX,  XXIII,  XXVI,  XXVII,  XXVIII,  xxix,  xxx,  xxxi,  xxxii,  xxx\  1 
XXXIX,  XLII,  XLIV,  XLV,  XLVI,  XLVI1I,  XLIX,  L,  LVI,  LX,  CCLXXXIX. 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS.  347 

SHELLEY,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792—  1822)  CLXXII,  CLXXVI,  CLXXXIV,  CLXXXVIII, 
CXCV,  CCIII,  CCXXVI,  CCXXVII,  CCXLI,  CCXLVI,  CCLII,  CCLIX,  CCLX,  CCLXIV, 
CCLXV,  CCLXVIII,  CCLXXI,  CCLXX1V,  CCLXXV,  CCLXXVII,  CCLXXXV,' 
CCLXXXVIIL 

Shirley,  James  (1596  —  1666)  lxviii,  lxix. 
Sidney,  Philip  (1554  — 1586)  xxiv,  ccx.c. 
Smart,  Christopher  (1722— 1770)  ccxov. 
SOUTHEY,  Robert  (1774—  1843)  CCXVI,  CCXXVIII. 
Spenser,  Edmund  (1553  — 1598-9)  liii. 
Suckling,  John  (1608-9  —  l64x)  CL 
Sylvester,  Joshua  (1563  —  1618)  xxv. 

Thomson,  James  (1700—  1748)  cxxu,  cxxxv. 

VAUGHAN,  Henry  (1621  —  1695)  LXXV,  CCXCIV. 
Vere,  Edward  (1534  —  1604)  XLI. 

Waller,  Edmund  (1605—  1687)  lxxxix,  xcv. 

Webster,  John  ( -  1638  ?)  xlvii. 

Wither,  George  (1588  — 1667)  cm. 

Wolfe,  Charles  (1791  —  1823)  ccxviii,  ccc. 

Wordsworth,  William  (1770— 1850)  clxxiv,  clxxvii,  clxxviii,  clxxix, 

CLXXX,  CLXXX1X,  CC,  CCVIII,  CCX,  CCXI,  CCXII,  CCXIII,  CCXIV,  CCXIX,  CCXXIII, 
CCXXXVIII,  CCXL,  CCXLII,  CCXLIII,  CCXLV,  CCXLVII,  CCXLVIII,  CCXLIX,  CCL, 
CCLI,  CCLIII,  CCLIV,  CCLVII,  CCLVIII,  CCLXI,  CCLXVI,  CCLXIX,  CCLXXII, 
CCLXXIII,  CCLXXVI,  CCLXXVIII,  CCLXXIX,  CCLXXXI,  CCLXXXII,  CCLXXXVL 
CCLXXXVII,  CCCI. 

WOTTON,  Henry  (1568  — 1639)  LXXII,  LXXXIV. 
Wyat,  Thomas  (1503  — 1542)  xxi,  xxxill. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES, 


PAG* 

Absence,  hear  thou  my  protestation 16 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 188 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 280 

Ah,  Chloris !  could  I  now  but  sit 78 

Ah !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 192 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd 131 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights  ..." 177 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true 160 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow?  —  This  the  Stream 271 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 205 

And  wilt  ihou  leave  me  thus 29 

Ariel  to  Miranda :  —  Take 262 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 280 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers 45 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 30 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 96 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 187 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 226 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 85 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears 261 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 205 

Avenge,  O  Lord !  thy  slaughter'd  Saints,  whose  bones 59 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake 139 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre 90 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 200 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 209 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  Love 280 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 175 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 21 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 260 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 17 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 251 

Best  and  Brightest,  come  away 274 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 87 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy m 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 35 

Bright  Star  1  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art 203 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  349 

PAGE 

Call  for  the  robin  red-breast  and  the  wren 37 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  air 40 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  arms 70 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night 31 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death 36 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love 14 

Come  Sleep:  O  Sleep!  the  certain  knot  of  peace 319 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands .  319 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth ♦    .  14 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd ,     ,    .  39 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 74 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power 167 

Daughter  to  that  good  earl,  once  President ,    .  81 

Degenerate  Douglas !  O  the  unworthy  lord 257 

Diaphenia  like  the  daffadowndilly 19 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move 48 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 129 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 84 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo 159 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child 203 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 256 

E'en  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks 320 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind 215 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky 248 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam 283 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 98 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 97 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing 28 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 36 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 137 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 23 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year 312 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 57 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 269 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 37 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may 79 

Gem  of  the  ©rimson-colour'd  Even 193 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame !  The  blooming  morn 321 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine 134 

Go,  lovely  Rose 83 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit 248 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 117 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 73 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 83 


350  INDEX  OF  FiRST  LINES. 

PAG» 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain *.••«  240 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 323 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights .  92 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy 100 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys 105 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 190 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 71 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 17 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 126 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 192 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 98 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey 168 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 182 

I  dream'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way 282 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden 185 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions 225 

I  have  no  name 327 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes »    .    .    .  287 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 256 

I  remember,  I  remember 228 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night 323 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 243 

I  travell'd  among  unknown  men 186 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 264 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile 302 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 95 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 15c 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 135 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died 327 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 38 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 89 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond 34 

I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean 163 

In  a  drear-nighted  December -.    .    .  197 

In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining •    .    .  172 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan 222 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 278 

It  is  not  Beauty  I  demand  .    . 81 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 72 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 16 

It  was  a  summer  evening 219 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking ^27 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John 163 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son 74 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 24 

Life  1  I  know  not  what  thou  art 173 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  HATES.  351 

PAGE 

Life  of  Life?  Thy  lips  enkindle 286 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore 28 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 2a 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 87 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours 145 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 295 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings 17G 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour 217 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill 149 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear .' 68 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 283 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 175 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 318 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 25 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past 233 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 312 

My  love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit '86 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow 32 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife 35 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his 25 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 38 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  fnneral  note 221 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 88 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 116 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 275 

O  blithe  new-comer !  I  have  heard 253 

0  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair 180 

O  Friend !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 216 

O  happy  shades !  to  me  unblest ! 324 

O  if  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm 24 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay 240 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see 202 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 155 

O  me !  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head 33 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming 26 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 157 

O  never  say  that  I  was  talse  of  heart 18 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 156 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light 118 

O  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom 238 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 179 

O  waly  waly  up  the  bank .\ 94 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 199 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being 300 

O  World  !  O  Life  !  O  Time 312 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky 325 


352  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGB 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 133 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 162 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 211 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name 47 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 229 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day 23 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 304 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 218 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 216 

One  more  Unfortunate 235 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 207 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd 281 

Over  the  mountains 77 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day 39 

Phoebus,  arise 11 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 208 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth 46 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood .    .    .    .  234 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair 75 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou 230 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King 122 

Season  of  mist  and  mellow  fruitfulness    ...» .    .  266 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day .    .  22 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 91 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways      ....         185 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 184 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 183 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 184 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea 13 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part 32 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile 136 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone     . 233 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king 11 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee 278 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  voice  of  God 213 

Surprized  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  wind 204 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 83 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 258 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade 136 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 194 

Take  O  take  those  lips  cway  ....».-.-> 31 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense 305 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 80 

Tell  me  where  is  Fan  rv  bred    • 39 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINE*.  656 

*'hat  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold «...  37 

fhat  which  her  slender  waist  confined 86 

Hie  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 151 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 59 

f  he  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 191 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 59 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King 49 

The  lovely  lass  o*  Inverness 126 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure 137 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 311 

The  poplars  are  fell'd,  farewell  to  the  shade 147 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear    ....         232 

The  suri  upon  the  lake  is  low 279 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 170 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon 304 

The  World's  a  bubble,  and  the  Life  of  Man 46 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters .    .  -  .  182 

There  is  a  flower,  the  Lesser  Celandine 227 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 85 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes  away 227 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass 328 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream 313 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none 29 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn 50 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair 46 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 186 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream 127 

Thy  hue,  dear  pledge,  is  pure  and  bright 93 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair 120 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry 48 

Toll  for  the  Brave 130 

To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old 19 

Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won ; in 

Twai  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 119 

Two  Voices  are  there,  one  is  of  the  Sea 215 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 15 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying 305 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 69 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 247 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie 148 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain 25 

We  talk'd  with  open  heart,  and  tongue '. 309 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 307 

We  watch' d  her  breathing  thro'  the  night 240 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains 320 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 86 


354  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

TAG* 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command .  121 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun 267 

When  God  at  first  made  Man 7» 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name ...  221 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 26 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 70 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 217 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 204 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 13 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 324 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 18 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 22 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 138 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 88 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 239 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young 14a 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 288 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 201 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame     .......  158 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought • 27 

When  we  two  parted .  196 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son 244 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 197 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 3*9 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 109 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 33 

Whoe'er  she  be 75 

Why  art  thou  silent !  Is  thy  love  a  plant 195 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day *7a 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover •  9° 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie 189 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see ^S 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around l38 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon  .    .    • lS7 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers l64 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 2I° 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye 357 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more •«.  63 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night  ........«.••-  *o 


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